The Sweet Life

Hopes and Dreams (Again)

Andrea Edwards — 2010-03-21T17:31:45Z

I wrote this post nearly a week ago - I published and then, worried about the way it sounded, I pulled it. With a few gentle nudges of encouragement, I've decided to put it back up.

Here's the thing. I've been writing here for two and a half years, and yet... I feel like I've only let a small little bit of myself grace these pages. Mostly because I'm afraid. Of what? It's hard to explain. I even created a new space where I hoped I could be more daring - but I rarely write there. Again, it's hard to explain.

But that fear? I've decided that instead of letting it discourage me from writing, from being truly myself - I'm going to try and let it be my fuel. I'm still not going to edit this post - nor will I link to all the things I reference, although I know I should. I'm just going to hit publish, and beat fear with triumph.

------------------------

Three years ago, I was on the cusp of realizing a dream of mine.

I was finishing up the certification process to become a Childbirth Educator with the International Childbirth Education Association, and was preparing to teach my first class.

I had a gig all set up at The Birth Center, where I had both of my girls, teaching Natural Childbirth classes one evening a week.

I was 7 months pregnant, my baby and I were healthy, and I had an amazing 3 1/2 year old daughter who was thriving at preschool, and I was married to my best friend in the world.

And then my life flipped upside down.

I hemorrhaged after having Blythe and then nearly died two weeks later when it happened again.

I struggled to recover. My family and friends were an amazing help, but still I struggled.

At two months of age, my happy and content baby started having strange spells where her whole body seized up, and she would scream and cry, unable to be soothed.

At four months of age, it got even worse. She went from being able to sit up fairly well when assisted to not even being able to lift her own head. She was ahead developmentally, and then, suddenly, she was so far behind that her body movements resembled those of a newborn.

Her screaming and seizing got worse, and there wasn't a doctor at our (expletive) HMO who would help us.

And then the economy took a dive, and the company my husband worked for decided to shut down its plumbing division. We had two choices: look for a new job in a flailing economy, or start our own business and take over the unfinished contracts from the old company.

We decided we'd take the contracts, so overnight we became business owners. Just like that.

And while I know it's the American Dream to own a business, it wasn't my dream. I exchanged my own dream for someone else's, one I didn't really want. But I feel bad for being ungrateful.

I miss my husband, my best friend. I miss talking to him about things other than work, I miss lazy Sunday afternoons, and I miss the carefree way we used to laugh.

One day, my hopes and dreams were right there in front of me.

And then they were gone.

My health, my baby's health, my dream job... just gone.

It's hard to describe what was left in their place. Post partum depression, resentment, confusion, stress, more depression, and a lot of tears.

I am trying so hard to stay positive, but it's hard when so much of my life changed in such a short amount of time. When so many dreams were shattered, and I didn't even get a chance to process the changes and accept them for what they were.

I am trying. I struggle every day, but I am trying to fix my attitude to one of acceptance and embrace what is, not what could have been.

Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans. ~John Lennon

So true.

Puppy Throwdown

Andrea Edwards — 2010-03-17T01:19:00Z

We have a new family member!

Meet Alex, our 8 week old American Bulldog puppy.

{Saying HI!}

I wasn't so sure about adopting another dog. I mean, it's not like we're busy or anything. I've been spending every waking moment with him so that I can fall in love - and what do you know?

Turns out, sweet puppies are incredibly easy to fall for.

As soon as we brought him home, Alex became best friends with Knight, the last of our Labrador Retriever Puppies. Watching them play and wrestle is so fun.

I staged a little tug-of-war throwdown the other day, right before Knight left to go live with his forever family, just so that one of them could end their relationship with bragging rights.

The beginning makes me a little woozy - I wish I knew enough about videos to edit out the part where I'm setting them up and am way too close. Also? I don't know why my voice automatically goes up several octaves when talking to puppies, but apparently it does.

Enjoy!

tug-of-war from Andrea Edwards on Vimeo.

"Hugs"

Andrea Edwards — 2010-03-16T20:15:00Z

I don't hug.

I mean, I do willingly hug my kids and my husband. But they are the exception. There are people I love dearly, people who have burst into tears right in front of me and all I can do is pat them on the arm when I should be hugging them. I suck at comforting people, clearly.

Hugging just doesn't come naturally to me. In fact, most of the time after I hug some one I have to go wash my hands. I don't know why.

There are times that I am comfortable hugging people, like at BlogHer last year. I even hugged Marinka, before I remembered that she doesn't hug, either. Beforehand, I imagined us being the two stiff non-huggers in the crowd, but lo and behold, I got to Chicago and hugged more people in one weekend than I had in my entire life.

There is something about getting to know people but only seeing them once or twice a year that makes me feel ok about hugging, and to even *gasp* initiate personal-space-barrier-breaking physical contact.

You'd think, then, that I'd be throwing out hugs left and right on twitter since the sentiment is there but I don't actually have to have anyone up in my personal space.

{As an aside, this is one of the things I love about Twitter, blogging, and social media in general: I can socialize till my heart's content without having to wash my hands between conversations. A life saver for neurotic little me.}

But, no. I've thought about tweeting "Hugs", and goodness knows sometimes people seriously could use a good squeeze when they are in the thick of something difficult. But I go to type the word and *cringe* *hand wash*.

Today, though, I gave my first twitter hug. I couldn't even type the word "Hugs" like a normal person. I had to type out "Sending you a huge virtual hug!" and I'm pretty sure that on twitter, wasting all that character space is probably against the law.

Any minute now, the twitter police are going to pop up and revoke my account.

And then where will I be? Lost and drifting, alone in cyber space with no one to tweet me "Hugs".

Perspective

Andrea Edwards — 2010-03-15T22:53:00Z

I wrote an emotional post earlier, and without even editing it or linking to things I'd mentioned, I published and left the house.

Now that I'm back, I unpublished. It was a huge woe-is-me whine fest and I'm embarrassed that I put it out there for anyone to see.

Here's the thing.

I struggle. We all do. Every single one of us has our own personal battles.

But I am so tired of being overwhelmed. I need to make real, concrete changes rather than complaining. Sure, it might make me feel better for a little while, but the same issues pop up time after time, and they will continue to surface unless I make alterations in the way I'm doing things.

Sometimes life rips people's hopes and dreams right out from underneath them. There are dreams that should never, ever be forgotten. Others need to be altered, put on hold, or left behind.

Life is so short, I don't want to spend time being miserable. Not when I have so much to be happy about. I don't want to look back on my life, 20 years from now, and regret the time I spent being sad.

So I will change my perspective. I will create new dreams, and try harder to take things as they come.

In the end, even though my old dreams were never realized, I'm so lucky to have had them in the first place.

The One Where Matthew Gets His Eyebrows Waxed (For a Good Cause!)

Andrea Edwards — 2010-03-08T21:13:00Z

So, Matthew at Childsplay x 2 recently shaved his goatee when twitter helped raise $300 for the YMCA.

Immediately, the question put forth by his twitter "friends" became - how much for the eyebrows, Matthew?

Unfortunately he seems fairly attached to that particular section of his face, so I suggested he get his eyebrows professionally waxed if we raise an additional $150 for the YMCA.

And he went for it. Heh heh.

I started the donations off with $25, and Melissa matched it. We need to raise another $100 before he'll get his eyebrows waxed - so will you please donate to the YMCA?

For a good laugh, if not for the kids?

Also, the fine print I didn't mention beforehand? We're going to need some video of this wax action.

I can't wait to see if his vlog ends up anything like this Friends clip of Joey getting his brows waxed.

Stages

Andrea Edwards — 2010-03-07T06:00:00Z

Blythe has a raging double ear infection and a nasty, wet cough.

I haven't slept more than a few minutes at a time for 4 nights in a row, because she cries out, in pain, constantly throughout the night. I lay next to her, and never fall completely asleep.

To say that I'm exhausted doesn't begin to cover it.

Tonight, at bedtime, I lay there beside her and cried silently as she fidgeted for an hour before falling asleep. The antibiotics contain traces of corn. It's the lesser of all the other corn-infused choices.

For now, in the beginning, she'll just be hyperactive. Soon, though, the effects of corn exposure will start to manifest in a million different ways. It's hard to say how far this will knock her back, when all is said and done.

I've been thinking a lot lately about the parent I used to be, before Blythe was born. The mother Alison had for her first 3 and a half years of life. That woman was exactly the parent I always hoped I would become.

I love my daughters, both of them, with the kind of passion I never thought would be possible. I wouldn't trade them for anything.

But sometimes I wonder what our life would be like, if Blythe didn't have special needs. If I could only be the parent I used to be...

If I could run in to Rite Aid for cough drops like a normal person - without having to kick myself for letting my baby girl rest her cheek against the counter for a split second.

Her face started to swell immediately. She was fine, after a speedy dose of Zyrtec. But it rattled me.

What would life be like if I could relax? How would things be different if I didn't worry constantly? What kind of mother would I be now, if I hadn't had only a dozen restful nights of sleep in the past three years?

Would I let my kids have corn dogs? I ran up to the store the other night, alone, and felt an unexpected pang of jealousy when I overheard a dad tell his two boys to pick something - anything, really - from the deli for dinner.

I'll never, ever be able to do that.

I mourn the loss of what could have been, sometimes. On nights like these, when I'm exhausted and worried and tearful. It makes no sense to pine for a life that won't ever happen... especially when, for the most part, I am so incredibly happy with the life I already have.

Today, Alison lost her first tooth. What a huge milestone it was. I wish we could have celebrated, but instead we spent the afternoon at Urgent Care, with Blythe's needs once again taking the front seat while Alison's lesser needs are pushed to the back.

Will she come to resent her sister, if I'm not careful? Will she wish for a life that could have been?

I hope not.

Big Papa

Andrea Edwards — 2010-03-04T21:00:00Z

Baby A is two days old. Five pounds, five ounces, with the most adorable baby cheeks.

From the nursery window, he looks like any other baby. But Baby A is different.

The woman who gave birth to him is a meth addict, and a smoker. Child Protective Services took him from her as soon as he entered this world, and thank goodness.

Without her, he has a fighting chance.

Our friend Jesse was informed just today that he gets to take Baby A home - parental rights have been signed over to him.

It was a scramble to put together everything a new, first time daddy might need. In the baby section of Wal.Mart, I threw diapers, wipes, blankets, bottles, formula, baby soap and teeny-tiny nail clippers into his basket. From my garage - a car seat, a crib mattress.

That is enough to get them through the first few days.*

Jesse knows that taking care of Baby A will be difficult. Meth babies face horrific challenges, ones that can last a lifetime. But everything Baby A needs rests in Jesse's hands, in his heart. He will be the most amazing Big Papa - dedicated, careful, informed.

Everything his birth mother was not.

After today, life for the two of them will never be the same. And I, for one, can't wait to see this beautiful family grow.

---------

*Offers to help Jesse and Baby A have been pouring in. Can I just say, again, how much I love this community? The two of them could use just about anything you might think of, and donations of any kind are appreciated. Email me at Jerdre53 (at) aol (dot) com or dm me @Sweet_Life on twitter if you are interested in helping. Thank you!*

Only in Time

Andrea Edwards — 2010-03-03T00:38:00Z

We're running on fumes around here.

The Rental. It's almost done. The last -my husband better not even think about buying another condemned crack house for at least a year- house is nearly finished. I took some almost-finished photos today, and hope to post some before-and-after shots for your enjoyment, sometime soon.

Don't hold your breath, though.

The Puppies. Nine of ten have gone to their new homes, and I am relieved. Taking care of puppies is a lot of work. But I'm also inexplicably sad. The house feels empty and quiet. Their mom keeps digging under the fence to go looking for her puppies. I look into her eyes, and I wonder whether I'm cut out for this business.

*

The Work. Owning and running a small business, especially in a flailing economy, is a lot of flipping work. There aren't pee-ons to do the crap jobs, you can't even think about quitting, and people tend to push and shove and demand a mile when you offer an inch.

So, what happens when you want to go on vacation, or you get sick, or you just want to have an uninterrupted dinner on occasion? Well, you pretty much don't take family vacations, you consult with clients between bouts of diarrhea, and you end up eating dinner three hours later than you intended. Every. single. time.

The Blogs. I love this space, and I have so many unwritten posts floating around in my head. But there is no time to write, to cultivate, or to read the blogs I love. I am creating a corn allergy blog with a friend, something I'm incredibly passionate about. But I refuse to publish sub-par content on something so important, and so it sits, neglected but full of potential.

The Kids. When life is going by at 100 miles per hour, I don't give my kids the kind of attention I think they deserve. Their needs get met. They eat meals on tv trays. Baths are every other day. Bedtimes get later and later. Time for creative play and cuddling go out the window, and we all feel the loss.

When finally I get them into their beds, they ask me to stay. I lay, quietly, trying to calm my breathing so that they will relax and fall asleep. They stall. Ask for water; declare the need to potty; fidget.

Time passes. I peek over to see if their eyes are truly closed, and am amazed to discover I can see their futures there in the dark, etched into their sleeping faces.

They are taller and stronger and more capable than they were yesterday.

Soon it will be tomorrow, which will become next week. Before I can blink my eyes, they will celebrate birthdays; lose teeth; refuse to hold my hand.

The list of a million things I need to accomplish before the sun rises over the mountains sits on my desk; their eyelashes rest gently on their smooth cheeks.

I slip into the space between them, and quickly fall into a peaceful sleep.

The One Where My Lady Bits Were Man-Handled by a Former Marine, Which Left Me Feeling Like I'd Given Birth to a Full-Grown Linebacker in Uniform, Including a Helmet Made of Porcupine Quills

Andrea Edwards — 2010-02-22T20:50:00Z

So, last Thursday I saw the specialist about my messed up lady bits.

He did a pelvic exam, and prefaced it with a warning that it might be *slightly uncomfortable* because he wanted to thoroughly examine my ovaries and uterus.

Let me tell you something.

I gave birth, naturally, without so much as tylenol in my blood stream - twice.  My husband will tell you, I lost my wimp status for good because I never made a damn sound - I had it handled.

I have a high tolerance for pain.  I have video to prove it.

But that exam? That was painful. Lift my hips up off the exam table, dig my nails into my palm, grit my teeth until they feel like they will snap in half, kind if painful.

I can't wear under.wear. I can barely wear pants, and even when I do, they are of the yoga or pajama variety. I'm nauseous and uncomfortable. My shit hurts, and it is an all-encompassing, overall ache of my lady bits punctuated by the stinging hot pain of a torn perineum.

Thank gah for my friend Kim, who introduced me to Hospital Strength Dermoplast Pain Relieving Spray, which, along with a steady stream of motrin, has kept me from being completely miserable for the next week, when my linebacker baby will hopefully be going off to college, and good riddance.

I know I'm complaining about it now, but I know that exam was necessary - and important. I'm glad my doc was so thorough. But it's my blog and I'll cry if I want to.

Despite putting me through freaking hell, this former-marine OB/GYN specialist really knows his stuff, and is handling my case in exactly the way I need. In his professional opinion, the masses on my ovary and uterus (did I mention the ER overlooked a few? Which is exactly why we need to be our own advocates, people - everyone makes mistakes, even doctors) do not look like cancer.

*Whew*

However, he is going to treat them as though they could be.

*Whew* again.

Currently?

We are awaiting lab results for some preliminary tests that can be an indicator of the presence cancerous tumors, but that aren't entirely definitive.

We are waiting for a copy of the genetic screening report that was run by the fertility clinic back in 2002 when I was an ovum donor.

When it arrives, I will go see a geneticist who will take a look at the report and determine if any other, more recently discovered genetic tests can be run. Hopefully, with all this genetics screening, we will know a lot more about whether or not these masses are cancerous - or may become so, in the future.

We are waiting for me to start a new cycle, joy of joys, and then I will go in for an ultrasound to see what, if anything, has changed.

And then... well, then we decide what happens next. Biopsy?  Partial lady-bit removal? Total?  Time will tell.

I've pretty much decided that if any surgical procedures need to be done, I will go to the Mayo Clinic. They really know what they're doing, and have the latest technology and clinical trials - and they accept my insurance.

That, my friends, is what you might call a win-win situation.

*Oh, and? I can't tell you how much everyone's support means to me. I can't, really - because once you've seen an ugly cry like that you'll never be the same, and I'm going to try and spare you. For now, anyway.*

Lady Bits

Andrea Edwards — 2010-02-16T23:00:47Z

I'm having issues with some of my lady parts.

I have a large cyst on my left ovary, which, in and of itself is not really a big deal. Cysts happen, sometimes they burst, it hurts like hell (currently still sore but manageable), and then you get on with your life.

The cyst is the reason I spent the majority of last Friday in a hospital gown, being poked and prodded by various medical instruments.

        *As an aside, I'd like to thank MerlotMom for the TP warning, and the universe as a whole for somehow making sure I shaved my legs for the first time in 2 months, the day prior. Seriously saved me much embarrassment.*

While they were getting a look at the cyst, they found something. Two somethings, actually.

Thing number one: A mass.  Also answers to the name "nodule". Something dense, not fluid filled like the cyst. It's questionable in its own right, but even more so because lady-part cancers run in my family *and* because I have been an ovum donor - twice.

The emergency doctor and radiologist think I should wait 6 weeks to see if it grows. If it does, we either biopsy it or remove the ovary all together. It's not like I need that ovary, anyway. If it doesn't grow, we wait another 6 weeks and check it again... lather, rinse, repeat.

Me? I'm not a wait and see kind of person. Taking shit by storm is more my style. There is a reason they call ovarian cancer the silent killer, and I'm not about to let it slip through the cracks. Especially when I have somehow been given the gift of early detection.

So I'm shopping for a health practitioner with the same kind of attitude, one that can point me in the right direction. I think I've found one.  I'll know for sure on Thursday whether we're in this together or I'm going to kick him to the curb and start over.

Thing number two: My bicornuate uterus has changed shape. Back before I had any kids, it was fairly normal and cow-head-looking. Normal enough, anyway, that it was missed by numerous radiologists and ultra sound technicians - even fertility experts who had a wand up my hoo-hah more times than I could count, during ovum donation.

After I had Alison, the odd shape was very obvious. They assumed the reason for the sudden change was because the endometrial lining was thicker. Several ultra sounds and an extremely painful hysterosalpingogram (HSG) later, and we had a very clear picture of the heart-shape of my deformed uterus.

Look Mom, let's hang it on the fridge in honor of Valentine's Day!

After I had Blythe, and hemorrhaged, my uterus was all kinds of messed up. I can only imagine what the films from that ordeal look like, and until now, I haven't had any desire to see them.

As of Friday, my uterus has, apparently, begun to collapse upon itself. It is now square-ish and squashed looking, with the top of the "heart" - the septum - now touching the bottom like a power yoga move gone horribly awry.

I can't even find a diagram of that kind of uterus.

The tech drew me a picture, one I wish I'd had the foresight to tuck into my pocket before she put it in my chart. Oh, wait, it's not like I had any pants on at the time... where exactly was I thinking I'd hide it?

Right now, the collapsing uterus isn't causing me any problems. It's secondary to the other, more urgent issue of the mass on my ovary. But it does need to be taken care of - probably when my ovary is being poked and/or removed.

Because, really? Nobody wants to be walking along one day and have their uterus fall out of their fagina. It would probably ruin whatever shoes I was wearing at the time.

In the meantime, I'm looking into research hospitals - surely someone must want to document this kind of madness for the sake of medical science. It seems a shame for such an oddity to wind up in the haz-mat dumpster behind the local small-town hospital.

The Prodigal Son Returns

Andrea Edwards — 2010-02-10T05:25:00Z

A couple of years ago, I had to find a new home for Maximus, the St. Bernard/Boxer mix I'd had for many, many years. Maximus is the dog who propped me up through illnesses, heartaches, and learning the ropes of motherhood. The dog who let me bury my face in his fur and would lay behind my babies as they learned to sit up, to cushion their inevitable falls.

Good Gah, I loved that dog. I cried a million tears the day I had to say good-bye.

We had to send him away because he developed a taste for... brace yourselves... baby goat brains. Yecch. He just could not leave the baby goats alone. Apparently, their brains are some sort of delicacy. And, living on a ranch, we couldn't just eliminate the temptation - especially after he attacked a goat right in front of me, which resulted in this and that.

However. Fate being what it is, we have had to get rid of our goat herds because their feed contains corn, which was causing a problem for corn-allergic Blythe; Max's "new" owner has just recently been transferred to Tennessee for work, and isn't able to take a dog with him.

An alignment of the stars? Possibly.

Joy, our 5-month-old American Bulldog pup, adores Maximus. She is basically his groupie; she follows him around constantly, waiting for him to notice her. And when he does, she is clearly in some kind of doggy heaven. Until he pins her head between his front paws and humps her face, but even that she doesn't really seem to mind. The little hooker.

For the past week, they have been inseparable, which I thought was cute. Until today.

Today, they decided to be little dog Houdini's and escape the back yard. Apparently acres and acres of land isn't enough for them. Oh, no, not for the aging rockstar and his groupie, who, until this very day, never dreamed of wandering off. Unlike Maximus, who had a little bit of a thing for running off, now that I think about it. Hmmmm.

The two of them ran over to the drainage pond a half-mile away, leaving Cage the Chubby Labrador in their dust, and ignoring me as I called them. Yes, you little stinkers, I saw you turn and look at me when I called your names, and then run off in the opposite direction.

My car is covered in mud. I almost got stuck, chasing them. When I went after them on foot, the mud sucked my shoes in, ankle-deep.

And when I caught up to them? They jumped right into the back of my car, happy as can be, as if we'd all been for a friendly little springtime stroll.

I've had to put my baby girl and her too-old-for-her boyfriend in doggie prison until we can figure out how they got out of the yard.

You can tell Joy is quietly humming some sort of soulful, bluesy song to get her through this indignity.

Oh, the horror. What will the neighbors think?

I'm afraid that soon, Maximus is going to have my sweet, gorgeous puppy turning tricks around the neighborhood, and then? Then, I'm going to have to kick some prodigal son ass, since Cage the Chubby Labrador is far too busy taking a nap in his posh doggie Mansion to stand up for his sister's honor.

Girl Talk Thursday - Chicken Shit

Andrea Edwards — 2010-02-04T19:10:00Z

I've been thinking about participating in Girl Talk Thursday for awhile. The problem is, I usually don't think about it until Friday morning. Woops!

But the topic today is something I've been thinking about - being a chicken.

I'm a big fat chicken about a lot of things, but there's one thing in particular that I don't want to be chicken about.

That one thing is my writing.

I've started writing seven novels in the past twelve years. Been passionate about them to the point that I can't think of anything else, writing and outlining and developing characters at every spare moment.

Inevitably, I come to a point where I want some feedback. But I'm too chicken shit to show my writing to anyone. The blog doesn't count, of course, because it's fluid and ever changing, and people who come here to read aren't expecting works of pure genius.

My real writing, that's something I hope to have published some day. I want someone to purchase one of my books, spend their precious time reading it, and come away happy that they did so.

That's a whole lot of pressure.

I realize that what shows up on bookshelves isn't anyone's first draft - which is why I need feedback. I can't be objective when I'm neck deep in the process of developing a scene. But I've always been too chicken to show anything I've seriously written.

Until now.

Maura is taking a look at the first few chapters of a novel I'd decided to abandon. Something I haven't looked at in 9 months, but that I know has potential to be something worth reading. Something worth writing.

I'm still a chicken. But at least, for now, I feel capable of laying some eggs.

More Than a Salad

Andrea Edwards — 2010-02-02T21:05:00Z

I snarled at my husband over a wilty, soggy, left over salad. Oh yes, I did.

This morning, as I rushed to prepare Alison's school lunch, my eyes drifted toward the container of left over salad I was saving for my lunch. As soon as I saw the lid lying askew, exposing the now disgusting looking salad to the air of the fridge, I abandoned my task and stomped over to my unsuspecting husband.

He had apparently been curious about the container from Strings in the fridge last night. I'm sure he was incredibly disappointed to find salad where chicken parmesan should be. That was no excuse, however, for just dropping the cardboard circle haphazardly over the top of the container, rather than sealing it the way he found it.

He tried blaming the salad for looking unappetizing.

So, basically, had the salad looked good to him, he would have gone ahead and eaten it? But since he found it unappealing, he couldn't be bothered to preserve it for me?

Well, thanks.

Tears began to spill over my cheeks and I couldn't let it go. It was my salad. That I went to the trouble of bringing home. Maybe I like my salads to look unappetizing, it was still mine. Had he eaten it, that would be one thing, but now it was ruined and nobody was going to eat it.

He apologized, profusely - he hadn't meant to be careless, hadn't meant to ruin my lunch, hadn't meant to upset me.

Even as I accepted his apology, I felt stupid for making such a big deal about a wilty salad. On any given day, I probably would have been happy about the excuse to eat something delicious, rather than a left over salad that, truthfully, wasn't all that tasty the first time around.

I knew I was making a mountain out of something far more ridiculous than a molehill - an anthill, maybe. A very tiny anthill, made by miniature ants.

There are mountains all around me - other people's mountains, ones I want desperately to help them conquer, but I can't. And while those steep peaks looming in the distance help me to see my molehills for what they truly are, I find my eyes filling with tears and my face flushed with heat.

Life is so freaking unfair sometimes. And it's not the salad, forget the salad, it's the injustice of people's mountains. And looking at that pathetic salad, I'm reminded that there's nothing in the world I can do about that.

I can try to ease people's suffering, but how I would love to throw it away like an old, wilty salad.

Replace it with something tasty and warm, paired with a nice bottle of wine and some laughs.

What I wouldn't give to have that power.

The Good, The Bad and The Ugly

Andrea Edwards — 2010-01-27T21:19:00Z

My hands are tied, and it's making me feel rather frustrated.

I mentioned before that Jeremy and I created a charitable organization to help connect the ranchers of our community with hungry families. In our minds, it created a win-win situation for everyone involved.

Unfortunately, things have come to a screeching halt because the issue of liability was brought up by a reporter interested in doing an article in our local paper. Rather than highlight the good we were doing, she wanted to focus on the bad: who people could sue.

Thanks for the support, local paper!

Our organization has helped hundreds of otherwise hungry families eat nutritious food, donated by ranchers who asked for nothing in return - not even a tax write-off.

Professionals are involved in every step of the process, to make sure only quality ground beef goes home to those families. And yet, when a reporter starts asking those professionals about liability, people get spooked. And families go hungry while people like me scramble to do some damage control.

It was suggested by the reporter that instead of asking local ranchers to donate meat, we'd do better to ask supermarkets, thereby putting the issue of liability on "Corporate America".

Well, listen here. That is not the point.

The point is that we are a community, taking care of our own.

Supermarkets cannot donate hundreds of pounds of beef in one go. They are working for a profit. Ranchers, though? They can donate a quarter of a steer and not blink an eye.

Your average steer weighs about 1500 pounds. Subtract about 30% of that for bone and, um... the stuff that goes into "hot dogs" and you've got 1050 pounds. A quarter of that is 262.5 pounds of ground beef.

Do you know how many mouths that feeds?

And yet. Our meat packer - the only one in our area that is state inspected, is spooked. They won't package any more "charity meat" until we can take the liability off of their hands.

Our insurance agents can't get a liability policy for us, because the meat isn't ours. They say the liability lies with the packers.

The USDA requirements for donated meat have been met - and yet, people are going hungry.

I don't know what to do. I have no idea how to keep things going at this point, and I don't have any money to give to a corporate attorney. I hope, with a little bit of research, I can solve this problem and be able to move forward. I've already discovered that Idaho has dealt with this issue already.

Has California? If not, how can I get them to?

A part of me wishes that the people who have used our court system to become millionaires over cups of spilled coffee could see what they've done to the spirit of giving - they should be ashamed at the ugliness they have created.

Strength

Andrea Edwards — 2010-01-22T20:57:00Z

When disaster strikes, the way it has recently in Haiti, people wonder what they can do to help.

Watching footage of people being pulled from rubble from the comfort of our living rooms can make us feel powerless, especially in our current economy, when many people can't donate much to relief funds.

But there is something most people can do, and it doesn't cost a dime.

Give Blood.

Give it now, in the midst of major catastrophe, and give it later, when time has brought about complacency. Give it for the heroes, for the needy, for the woman behind you on line at Starbucks.

I am that woman.

This is my family in crisis. My family that would be incomplete, were it not for blood donors.

Here you see a phenomenally strong and able-bodied man, gently cradling his newborn daughter and holding his wife's hand as medical professionals try to force her uterus to stop bleeding. He is the epitome of strength, and yet he is powerless to save the woman he loves.

My husband, one of the strongest people I have ever known, held my hand. He helped me through the pain, he kept me from fading away.

But it was blood donors (with the help of a fabulous midwife and countless doctors, nurses, and EMTs) who saved my life. I hemorrhaged severely three times after giving birth to Blythe. During the second and third hemorrhages, which occurred in less than 24 hours, I lost seven pints of blood.

My body only holds approximately eight pints of blood.

I am alive today because eight random strangers took the time to give their blood and plasma.

Giving blood saves lives. It saves lives in times of worldwide tragedy, and it saves lives every single day, for people whose stories will never make it onto the 5 o'clock news.

So, give. Give now and give often. Go to www.redcrossblood.org, or www.BloodSource.org to find out where, how, and, if I haven't yet convinced you, why.

You never know when you will be the one in need.

*you can't see it very well in this photo, but jeremy just so happens to be wearing his "Don't Be Chicken: Give Blood!" t-shirt (from bloodsource) in this photo. coincidence? i don't think so.*

The One Where Ross is Too Whiney... for JANICE

Andrea Edwards — 2010-01-20T21:56:00Z

I've been off my meds for six whole days now - and while I've had a few rough moments, I am happy to report that my real self is shining through.

I smile more. I laugh more. I love more.

That being said, now that my brain isn't so fuzzy, I've been looking back at myself over the past few months and I hate to admit, I feel a little bit like Ross. And not just because Ross is my least favorite Friend.

Have you seen the Friends episode where Ross is going through a tough time after losing his job on account of his RAGE, and then he starts dating JANICE?

And then, at the end, JANICE breaks it off because Ross is too whiney and annoying... for JANICE.

Here's a transcript of the scene:

-------
Janice: You're a very sweet person Ross. Um, unfortunately I don't think I can take another second of you whining!
Ross: Let me make sure I'm hearing this right. You... you're ending this with me because I'm too whiney? So you're saying I've become so whiney that I annoy you--Janice.
Janice: Well, yeah.
Ross: OH... MY... GOD!

Janice: Well, I guess that's two out of three... Joey. Hahahahahahahaha.

--------

Up there is a clip of the last half of the episode. If you can't see it, go here.

And can I just say, if my brain is clear enough to figure out how to embed a freaking video? People, I am back. Although, I don't know how to make it show you just the clip I want. Cut me some slack.

Anyway, my point?

I've been self-centered. I've been whiney. I've been a huge Debbie Downer. And maybe not everyone who reads here or follows me on twitter noticed, but I'm pretty sure the people I whined to noticed.

*coughMeghancoughKimcoughMauracoughKellycough*

So I'm here to say, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for not being the friend I'd like to be. I'm sorry for being whiney and annoying enough to make JANICE break up with me.

Forgive me?

I promise that if you do, the next time I have the opportunity, the first round's on me.

*wink*

oh, and? the fact that spellcheck wants me to change whiney to whitey makes me laugh. hard.

Decisions, Decisions: Choosing a Preschool for my Special Needs Child

Andrea Edwards — 2010-01-20T20:30:00Z

Blythe will be turning three this May, and it's important to me that I find a suitable preschool for her before her birthday.

With Alison, I started looking for preschools right around her first birthday (anal retentive, much?) and I toured dozens before I found the right one for her to attend at age three. I assumed Blythe would attend the same school, and even began working there a few months ago, in an attempt to get the staff ready for dealing with Blythe's food allergies.

But then, I stopped being in denial about the fact that Blythe has Special Needs. The truth of the matter is, most preschools - even amazing, incredible ones - aren't prepared to handle kids with Special Needs, and when those needs are life threatening, as in Blythe's case, there just isn't room for error.

With Alison, I did all the researching, touring, and deciding without her input. With Blythe's Sensory Processing Disorder, I knew she would have to be involved in the search. I don't see, hear, or smell things the way she does, so I am pretty much unqualified to choose a preschool for her on my own.

Today, Blythe and I spent an hour auditing a small, in-home preschool run by a sweet German lady, whom I'll call Frau. The school isn't specifically for Special Needs kids, but Frau has a lot of experience with Autism and food allergies, so she will have no problem accommodating Blythe.

Random bonus? Jeremy and I have been teaching the kids German and Spanish (what little our addled brains can recall, that is) since they were in the womb, so Blythe may end up being bilingual, after all.

I've made a list of "Pro's and Con's" to file away and compare to other preschools when the time comes to make a decision, but so far, the list of "Pro's" is a mile long. At the top, in big block letters, is the fact that Blythe was instantly comfortable in the environment.

I also really like the way Frau has coordinated the curriculum.  They study one subject per week (math, science, reading, social studies) so that even kids who only attend one day a week - as Blythe would, to start out - get a well rounded learning experience.

Another huge "Pro" is that while Frau's preschool is structured, she also allows for individuality. Case in point: one of the kids today was having a hard time concentrating on the task at hand, and so she gave him the option of either participating or playing elsewhere, quietly.

And because of that, none of the other kids got distracted and the child in question didn't have a melt-down. Blythe needs that kind of environment - at least at this stage, and definitely at this age.

And? It's clean, organized, and child friendly. Frau's kids are all grown and one of her grandkids (who calls her Oma, cue flashback to my childhood in Germany!) attends the preschool. Frau looks like a Grandma, which I think is one of the reasons Blythe was so immediately comfortable with her.

I'm excited about Blythe's prospects. I'm excited about our meeting with Frau and her assistant, about focusing on the next step in Blythe's development, about continuing to tour schools that have been recommended by the parents of other Special Needs kids. I'm excited about it all.

My baby is growing up! And for now, that thought doesn't terrify me one bit.

Withdrawal from Lexapro: Part 1

Andrea Edwards — 2010-01-18T19:48:00Z

Disclaimer: This post is long. Mainly because I was a wimp and didn't post the first part last week, as I should have. So, two posts in one = long ass post.

Nine months ago, I was suffering from depression and anxiety so severe, I felt as though I was struggling to live my life from the bottom of a deep hole.

Fortunately, I have a wonderful doctor who gently suggested that I try some medication, coupled with therapy. Just for a little while, just to make it so that I could put one foot in front of the other without feeling completely overwhelmed.

The plan, initially, was for me to start with 10mg of Lexapro and re-evaluate my situation in nine months. I have no doubt that Lexapro saved me from myself. Because of it, I was able to function, to interact with people, to care for my kids in a manner that was acceptable to me.

However... for the past few months, the side effects from the Lexapro have been outweighing the benefits. I feel myself walking through a constant fog of apathy accentuated with days of extreme sadness. Every single aspect of my life feels overwhelming, and yet I have no energy or desire to tackle even the smallest item on my to-do list. No matter what I eat, or how little I eat, I gain an average of 2-3 pounds per week. Even worse, my body fat percentage jumped six percent in four weeks.

I complain, constantly, and can't see the sunshine in my life, even as it blinds me.

Four weeks ago, I decided that I need to either up my dosage of Lexapro, or kick it to the curb.

Me? I choose to reclaim my life, and quit the meds with a plan in place, a safety net, and my therapist on speed-dial.

---------

I wrote that last week. I never published it, because I wasn't sure I would go through with it. I had little confidence in my ability to swallow that last pill and walk away.

But today? Today is day four without my meds. Today I feel amazing. Today I feel as though the fog is lifting and I can see my surroundings for the first time in a very, very long time.

And, bonus - my body fat has already dropped 2% with no exercise what-so-ever. Unless wearing my Sketchers Shape-Ups while sitting on the couch reading People Magazine counts as exercise. Doubtful.

I have experienced some negative side-effects from Lexapro Withdrawal so far. The worst, for me, is the vertigo and the muscle cramps. I have also experienced some brain zaps, a racing heart, and short bouts of rage and crying. But I know they are temporary. And thanks to an amazing therapist and an incredible book, I know how to fight them and an even mor

My saving grace has been the book Depression Free, Naturally, written by Joan Mathews Larson, PH.D. who works in conjunction with the Health Recovery Center. My friend Kelly, who is familiar with my struggles, recommended I read this book.

By the way, Kelly - I owe you, big time. This book helped me to create a plan for myself, not only for the days and weeks following my last dosage of Lexapro, but for keeping myself mentally and hormonally healthy for the rest of my life.

Currently, to combat the horrid side effects of Lexapro Withdrawal, I am taking the following supplements:

Breakfast:
3 - Amino Acid Combos
1 - B Vitamin Complex
1 - Omega 3
1 - Magnesium
1 - Chewable Vit. C

Lunch:
1 - B Vitamin Complex
3 - Amino Acid Combos
1 - Iron
1 - Zinc

After Dinner:
3 - Amino Acid Combos
1 - B Vitamin Complex
1 - Chewable Vit. C
2 - Tryptophan

And, when I need it for anxiety, I'm taking Hyland's Nerve Tonic.

I know that seems like a lot, and it is! But without these, my symptoms would be much, much worse. Based on my research, the symptoms of Lexapro Withdrawal can be so severe that normally sane people contemplate suicide, hear voices, and go without sleep for weeks at a time. I didn't want that to be me.

In fact, the first night I took the Tryptophan, I had a good night of sleep for the first time in nearly ten years. It is my new best friend.

The next few weeks will be rough, I know that. But I am so excited about the future. I am incredibly happy to start getting to know my true self again, and to introduce her to all of you.

Thank you for supporting me as I navigate the journey that is my life - it means so very much to me.

We Have a Winner!

Andrea Edwards — 2010-01-16T20:49:00Z

Congratulations to Debbie in Memphis, who correctly guessed which two items I did not find under my bed!

What I did find:

1. Dirty T-Shirt

2. Almost empty container of Planter's Dry Roasted Peanuts

4. Used Flosser

5. Popsicle Stick

6. Crusty Paper Plate

7. Paper Towel with a Big Spot on it

9. Granola Bar Wrapper

10. Jar of Peanut Butter

11. 2 Dirty Socks - That Don't Match

Debbie correctly guessed that neither #2 - a half eaten cookie or #8 - a bowl with gooey ice cream at the bottom, were found under my bed. She wins the $25 gift card to In-n-Out Burger, or something equally delicious if she'd prefer, since Memphis doesn't seem to have an In-n-Out Burger.

In which case, stay tuned: the gift card may resurface the next time I clean the space under my bed.

Unless I get a hankering for a burger between now and then.

Pick What Doesn't Belong, Win FREE FOOD!

Andrea Edwards — 2010-01-16T03:41:00Z

I cleaned under my bed today, and while it hasn't really been all that long - maybe 4 days? - I found a pile of garbage. On my husband's side, of course.

Your task: read the following list and pick which TWO items I DIDN'T find under my bed, and I'll send you a $25 gift card to In-N-Out Burger!

Unless, of course, you're Meghan, or you just don't have one near you, in which case I'll send you a gift card for something else that happens to be delicious, based on your preference. And on what gift cards I happen to have in my junk drawer at the time.

1. Dirty T-Shirt

2. Almost empty container of Planter's Dry Roasted Peanuts

3. Half Eaten Cookie

4. Used Flosser

5. Popsicle Stick

6. Crusty Paper Plate

7. Paper Towel with a Big Spot on it

8. Bowl with Gooey Ice Cream at the Bottom

9. Granola Bar Wrapper

10. Jar of Peanut Butter

11. 2 Dirty Socks - That Don't Match

You have until.... hmmm... Tuesday 1/19/10 at 5:00 pm Pacific to enter your guess (2 guesses, maximum, unless nobody actually enters and then my five readers can guess as much as they want), at which time I'll post a photo of what I actually found.

Good Luck! And tell your friends!

You Don't Have to Kiss Me

Andrea Edwards — 2010-01-14T22:57:00Z

It's De-Lurker Day! Apparently. I'm always the last to know about these kinds of things.

Mainly because I'm lazy, and have a terrible short term memory.

You're supposed to give me some love and make me feel wonderful about myself, but you don't have to kiss me, buy me dinner or sleep with me later. Aren't you lucky?

In honor of Delurker Day, I'll tell you an odd detail about myself...

I used to believe I was a cat in a former life. I had a list of reasons why, and everything.

So, if you've been lurking around here, or even if you've just found my site, show yourself!

At Least One of us is Laughing

Andrea Edwards — 2010-01-12T18:01:00Z

Have you ever been approached by a scruffy looking person with a long story as to why they are asking for some change for the pay phone, only to write them off as a lying crack addict?

Well, last night the stars aligned and my husband was that guy.

He's been remodeling a commercial bathroom for a local law firm at night, so as to not interfere with their fancy-schmancy office, and last night was no exception.

However, it was my sister's last night in town before returning to Oklahoma, so we brought him some clean clothes, took him to dinner, and then dropped him off on our way back.

A few hours later, he decided to call it a night and walked out the door, only to discover that his truck keys weren't in his pocket. In fact, nothing was in any of his pockets.

He had changed back into his work clothes and left everything in his nice pants. His wallet, his money, all of his keys, his cell phone, all snuggled safely in the pockets of his other pants. Which were in a bag. In the bathroom. Of the locked building.

Do you realize that in this day and age of cell phones, you aren't required to remember anyone's phone number anymore? Yeah.

And have you ever noticed that pay phones aren't on every street corner, the way they used to be? Yeah.

Also, have you ever wondered what would happen if you had to creep around a professional building in the middle of the night, dressed in scruffy clothes that are covered in tile dust, checking all the doors to see if they are locked? Yeah.

Basically, you end up hanging out on the curb outside of a gas station in a questionable neighborhood, hoping that your wife will answer when you call the house from an unknown (pay phone) number, using the only change you could scrounge up.

Of course, your kids are asleep and your wife can't pick you up, but at least she can try to arrange a ride for you, once she stops laughing.

And that's how it happens: a successful business man spends a couple of hours in the shoes of a hobo.

Title? What Title?

Andrea Edwards — 2010-01-10T22:22:00Z

Tomorrow Alison goes back to school, after three weeks of Winter Break.

I know a lot of people yearn for the time that break ends, but I love spending the day just doing whatever the hell we please.

I haven't had as much time to get work done, my house has been messy more than it's been clean, I thought my head might explode from the whining on occasion, but for the most part, the past three weeks have been delightful.

We have lived in our jammies. We made arts and crafts and watched television.

We have eaten at odd times, discovered new ways to make old recipes, and danced in the kitchen.

We didn't go anywhere special or do anything terribly important, but all of us are healthy and happy. (Other than the few days where I had raging PMS, but that's a post for another day.)

Tomorrow we will begin our day with structure, hurry to get places on time, and wear real clothes. We'll struggle to enforce bedtime and supervise homework over the "I don't wanna" cries.

Once again, I'll treasure my mornings alone with Blythe, get my office organized, and catch up on cleaning. I'll make real meals and keep a tight schedule and probably start drinking coffee again. And wine, too, if I'm being entirely honest.

I'll miss these lazy days.

Loyalty

Andrea Edwards — 2010-01-06T19:22:00Z

In this economy, most people are focused on exactly where every one of their pennies is going.

That's a good way to live, in general, (have I mentioned we're ~~cheap~~ frugal?) but there are some things that are more important than a dollar.

My husband and I own a small construction business, and I know from experience that cheaper isn't always better. I can guarantee you that we're not always the cheapest bid, but we'll be the best at everything from setting up appointments to making sure the customer is completely satisfied, to follow up care.

In the long run, isn't that worth a few extra dollars?

We renew all of our business insurances around the first of the year, and we've been with the same insurance agents for the past 12 years. They are awesome - just all around great at everything.

Not to mention, having all of our insurance needs taken care of under one roof eliminates a ton of stress for me. We need an insurance certificate? One email = done, for everything, in a matter of minutes.

I've had insurance agents crawling out of the woodwork to try and win my our business for the past couple of months. Some have been a tiny bit cheaper than my agents, but I refuse to transfer, anyway.

And then I have to defend my decision. Those other agents don't understand why I wouldn't immediately switch carriers if I can save a few dollars.

It comes down to loyalty. It comes down to business relationships. It comes down to my belief that the grass is not always greener, even if looks that way from this side of the fence.

Wouldn't I be pissed to discover astro-turf when I got there?

Super Tasty Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cookies

Andrea Edwards — 2010-01-05T04:33:00Z

Super Tasty Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cookies - that are, amazingly, also pretty good for you!

Preheat Oven to 350 degrees

In a gallon sized ziploc bag, combine the following Dry Ingredients:

* 1 cup whole wheat flour (I use Prairie Gold by Wheat Montana when I bake, because it's naturally sweeter than most whole wheat flours)
* 1 cup old-fashioned oats
* 1 tsp baking soda
* 1/2 tsp sea salt
* A shake or two of cinnamon (1/4 to 1/2 tsp)
* 3/4 cup nestle mini-morsels (use more or less, based on your preference)

Shake it up, set it aside.

Then get out your medium/large bowl and put in the following "Wet" Ingredients, stirring between each addition until just combined:

* 6 Tbsp unsalted butter, softened
* 3/4 cup firmly packed brown sugar
* 1/2 cup banana puree (one regular banana = 1/2 cup puree)
* 1/2 cup zucchini puree (one large fresh or about a cup of frozen, sliced = 1/2 cup)
* 1 large egg white*

Dump in the baggie of dry ingredients, mix until it's all moistened.

Lightly spray two cookie sheets with cooking spray.

I use either a melon baller (for kid-sized cookies) or my Tablespoon to scoop the dough and drop it onto the cookie sheets, about a half inch apart. I mash them down a little with the scoop, because they don't expand much.

Bake them for 12-14 minutes. They'll still be soft, but slightly golden.

Pull them out of the oven and let them sit for a few minutes before moving them to a rack to cool.

Just a warning, though - around here, they last less than two hours. Double the batch if you want them to stick around for any amount of time! They are seriously the most delicious cookies I've ever eaten.

Also, while I was breastfeeding? They increased my milk supply.

They are MAGIC COOKIES! *insert jazz hands here*

* When Blythe was allergic to eggs, I mixed the following in a bowl to replace the egg white:
1 1/2 Tbsp water
1 1/2 Tbsp oil
1 tsp corn-free baking powder

Tastes just as good!

One Choice

Andrea Edwards — 2010-01-02T19:55:00Z

Right now, you are one choice away from a new beginning.

~Oprah Winfrey

Tradition

Andrea Edwards — 2009-12-31T16:40:00Z

It's New Year's Eve, 2009, and I can't help but be incredibly excited about what 2010 holds in store.

But I also reflect on this year, all the lows and the few, but incredible, highs.

I think back to all the New Year's Eve's of my past, and fondly remember the girl I once was.

When I was a kid, my paternal Grandmother, "Grammy" lived with us for awhile.

She was what you might call "upper class" and had some habits that reflected her upbringing.

The absolute most vile of these, in my childhood opinion, was the fact that we had to eat oysters on New Year's Eve. Every year. Without fail.

I would sit there at the table for hours on end, refusing to eat the gloopy balls of stink on my plate.

According to Grammy, I would have bad luck in the New Year if I didn't eat them.

We'd sit there, the two of us with our iron wills, and ring in the new year over a plate of cold oysters.

I never did eat them, and I never will.... just in case she's still watching from a table in Heaven.

Do you have any New Year's Eve traditions? Any you'd rather live without?

Cool Hand Luke's - an Un-Solicited Review

Andrea Edwards — 2009-12-29T21:03:00Z

Last night my husband and I ate at Cool Hand Luke's Steakhouse/Saloon for the first time.

Mainly because we got a gift card for Christmas, and we're ~~cheap~~ frugal, but that's neither here nor there.

Within two minutes of walking in the door, we were seated at an enormous booth, big enough to seat six. Which was awesome, because we were on a romantic anniversary date and were able to share one side of the booth without feeling like we were packed in like sardines.

Our drinks arrived quickly - a full glass of tasty Pinot Grigio for me, a humongous, frosty mug of Bud Light (draft) for Jeremy.

Soon after, our salads, baked beans and sourdough rolls arrived.

The ranch dressing was so incredibly creamy, it completely made up for the plain, iceberg lettuce salad. The sourdough rolls had been brushed with butter while still warm, and were crusty on the outside, soft on the inside, just how I like them. I let Jeremy have one, but only because it was our anniversary.

And the baked beans? Let me just tell you - I am not a huge fan of baked beans. But these were delicious. I avoided the jalapenos, left whole just for that purpose, I assume.

Also, thank you, Cool Hand Luke's, for serving the baked beans in a little separate pot, because I would have been less happy with my food if it had been served with baked bean liquid all over the plate.

Smart thinking!

Finally, on to the main course. I ate every. single. bite. of a 10 ounce prime rib.

Wonderfully seasoned, perfectly cooked - medium, the way I like it. I didn't lick the plate, but only because there was a little girl sitting at the next table and I didn't want to teach her any bad manners.

On a side note, I loved the dark cloth napkins - perfect for a place where paper napkins just wouldn't have held up.

I was less than enamored with the garlic red mashers, but that's not Poor Luke's fault. It's ~~mine~~ Kimberly's. I love Kim's mashed potato recipe so much, all others are tasteless in comparison. I need to just stop ordering them in restaurants, because they'll never measure up.

Jeremy had Tri-tip and french fries, which he let me taste. Because, you know... 10 ounces of my own meat just wasn't enough. The fries were very tasty, especially dipped in the ranch. Jeremy said the tri-tip was good while it was hot, but not so much as it cooled off. He thinks it's because he ordered it medium-well, instead of Medium. Totally his fault.

We also ordered a side of shrimp, which had been forgotten somewhere along the line, and so to make up for us having to wait, they tried to comp us our entire meal.

The whole, delicious meal, people. All. of. it.

Which, hell no. We are ~~cheap~~ frugal, but we're not about to accept a $50 meal for free just because of some late-arriving shrimp. Especially not when the restaurant was clean, well designed to allow for a romantic date or a family meal, the food was beyond delicious and the service was stellar: from the hostess desk to the server, to the bussers stopping by to pick up dishes we were finished with.

We let them comp us the $5 shrimp, but left a 32% tip. And I ate the shrimp for lunch today. YUM.

Overall Review:

With a stuffed, round belly and a loosened belt, I give Cool Hand Luke's *FIVE* big belches.

*Just in case the title wasn't clear enough: This was an un-solicited, un-paid review.*

The Journey...

Andrea Edwards — 2009-12-28T21:16:00Z

Seven years of marriage. Twelve years of love.

Our journey has only just begun.

Happy Anniversary, Jeremy.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;

thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;

so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,

so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

~Pablo Neruda

The Best of 2009 at The Sweet Life

Andrea Edwards — 2009-12-27T00:11:00Z

I've seen ~~one blogger~~ a lot of bloggers publishing "best of 2009" posts, which I think is sheer genius.

After all, I've consumed far too much wine, turkey and various tasty things to be able to string together a coherent sentence or two.

So, for the love of all that is lazy, here are they are. In my not-so-humble opinion, of course.

Some are funny, some are sappy. All are a piece of the best I have to offer.

When God Negotiates

The Meth Capital

Mending Fences

Laugh, Anyway in honor of the Ever Lovely Madeline Spohr

Clearly, She's Not

One Task

The Little Guy

Mid-Night Musings

Foul Air

The Price of Getting it Done

By the Light of the Moon

Happy New Year! May 2010 bring out the best in all of us.

Out-Smarting Santa

Andrea Edwards — 2009-12-21T16:06:00Z

I asked Alison to write a letter to Santa, so that I'd know what she really wanted for Christmas.

She asked for a HORSE. And that's it.

I pointed out to her that we've agreed to wait until she's 8 to get a horse, and asked her to write another letter.

She a asked for a PONY. And that's it.

I asked if she'd be happy with Santa giving her horseback riding lessons.

No, a PONY. Of her own.

I explained to her how much work goes into caring for a pony, and asked her to write another letter.

She asked for a KITTEN. And that's it.

I was pretty much sold, because I can handle a kitten. Seriously, what's one more?

Until Jeremy pointed out that it's the kitten she's wanted all along, but we've told her no.

Had she asked for the kitten first? I would have said no, we've talked about this, write another letter.

My six year old is so much smarter than me, it's scary.

Happy Holidays and All That Jazz

Andrea Edwards — 2009-12-15T18:41:00Z

For so many of us, 2009 has been incredibly hard.

I want you to know that I appreciate all of the friendships I have.

Whether I see you face to face on a regular basis, or we connect through our keyboards - my cup runneth over. Thank you.

Here's to a fantastic New Year! *Cheers*

Much Love,
Andrea

Why

Andrea Edwards — 2009-12-11T06:38:00Z

Sometimes, they drive me crazy.

Occasionally, I just wish for some peace and quiet.

And then I realize how empty my life would be without them.

It is then that I throw down my dish towel and dance.

What could be better than that?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Photos courtesy of Kelly Roberts, as usual!

Yes, Another One

Andrea Edwards — 2009-12-07T00:34:00Z

Jeremy and I bought another junk house.

It's disgusting, I won't lie. I'll post some photos, soon!

I wrote about our first day of demolition on twitter, because I don't like to swear on my family blog.

*ahem*

Speaking of family.

Kelly took some amazing photos of us and I'm giving you a sneak peek.

Stray

Andrea Edwards — 2009-12-02T21:39:00Z

I found this puppy.

I was on my way home from a late night ice cream run when I noticed something odd in my headlights.  There she was, a tiny little lump in the middle of the street.

She was soaking wet, shivering, and oh my goodness she gently licked my hand when I put it toward her to sniff.

The girls are calling her Rory. She has the sweetest disposition, and is just amazing with the kids.

I hate to think that someone just dumped her out here in the country, but it happens more often than you'd probably care to know. So far, no one has claimed her.

Jeremy laughed when I brought her in, because, see, it's not the first time I've walked through the door with an animal in my arms.

I'm a stray magnet. I've rescued strays my whole life, at least 50 of them if I were to try and count them.

Cats and dogs of all colors, shapes and sizes.  Even a pot-bellied pig, once, when it showed up after a storm.

Does this happen to everyone?

Do animals just offer themselves to you?

My husband thinks most people just look the other way.  But that's not possible for me.

One time, a dog offered itself to me and in my rear view mirror I could see it watching me as I drove away.

The next day I went back to look for it, and it was nowhere to be found. I was so ashamed of myself for not helping it. I promised myself I'd never do that again.

So, I'm the crazy cat/dog lady. It's just who I am. At least I'm always in good company!

Recovery

Andrea Edwards — 2009-11-30T20:47:00Z

Blythe has been home from the hospital for over two weeks now.

She's much better, physically. Emotionally, she and I are both still feeling pretty raw.

She's been having nightmares about the hospital.

When she was there, bad things happened when she went to sleep. And so, even though she's home and safe, she fights sleep with all her might.

Her first few nights home, she woke up screaming every few hours, and managed to lose her voice.

Lately, she's been asking us to "stay" at bedtime. And so we do.

We stay up half the night, and then wake up a couple of hours later when she crawls into bed with us.

We snuggle her and tell her she's home, and safe.

*****

I dream, too.

My dreams are so vivid, that I wake up unable to breathe.

I'm afraid.

I wish I could say I'm not, but I am.

Today, I feel incapable of protecting my daughter.

I try so very, very hard.

But danger - whether it be in the form of corn or a virus - lurks everywhere.

I am overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of what we're fighting against.

It's us against the world, it seems, and I'm so scared.

Terrified, really.

She's my baby, and she's counting on me to keep her safe.

But what happens if I can't?

The answer to that question... it taunts me in my dreams.

On Your Sixth Birthday

Andrea Edwards — 2009-11-25T08:01:00Z

My darling Alison,

You were born in the caul on a blustery Tuesday morning at 4:47 A.M, six years ago.

Six whole years ago, you came into my life.

How I love you, my first born. More than you could imagine. More than you'll ever know.

The moment I saw your face, I changed forever.

You held my heart in your hands, and there it remains. There it will always be.

You made me a mother, and I am determined to make you as proud of me as I am of you.

I cherish everything about you. Do you know how I memorize your face as you dream?

You are the sun and the moon and the stars, and every little thing in between.

You are my everything; my student, my teacher.

For you, I wish all the things your little mind can imagine.

I love you, today and every day, my shining star.

All my love, forever...

Mama

**Edited to add:
After reading this letter, Alison wrote me a letter on my computer:

I LOVE YOU VERY MUCH SO DEEP IN MY HEART MOMMY. LOVE, ALISON.

*All photos courtesy of Kelly Roberts, who has an amazing ability to capture my child's essence.*

Community

Andrea Edwards — 2009-11-23T21:15:00Z

There's a community I belong to, one you can't find on a map.

It's here, it's there... it's everywhere, whenever we want to stop in.

I wrote about my love of this community when I got home from BlogHer this past July, although I never did go into detail as I promised. Even if I had carved out time to do just that, I never would have done it justice.

My blogging and twitter community - our community - is more than just "internet people". It's more than just laughter and fun, it's more than just a place to trade ideas and thoughts.

It's a family.

A family of people who care - who extend friendship beyond the general chit chat with a neighbor at the grocery store.

We laugh together. We rant together. We parent together. We cry together.

When the unthinkable happens, we grieve together.

We waited and hoped and prayed together last week, when Anissa Mayhew, one of the most amazing women I have ever had the pleasure of calling a friend, suffered a massive stroke.

There are a million adjectives that could aptly describe Anissa. She's funny and thoughtful, raunchy and classy, goofy and deep, honest and strong, fiercely loyal and open minded.

Her love moves mountains.

And that's why I know she'll continue to get better. Because she's Anissa, and she just has to.

Anissa, girl. I can't wait to see your beautiful smile. Wake up soon, will ya? We miss you.

~You can find updates from Anissa's husband Peter here, and find information on how you can help Anissa's family here.~

Blythe in the Hospital: Day Two

Andrea Edwards — 2009-11-16T21:38:00Z

We got through Day One in the hospital, and as I watched the sun stream through the window on our second morning, I truly felt the worst was behind us.

I was wrong.

Blythe was talking, responding, and feeling hungry - all great signs that her health was improving. Her blood sugar was extremely low, because she was unable to receive "normal" IV fluid, which contains dextrose (and therefore corn) for that very reason.

It was important that she start holding down fluids so that she could get her blood sugar regulated.

We started with ice chips, which came right back up.

The doctors, nurses, and pharmacy techs were researching like crazy to find an anti-nausea medicine that didn't contain corn. There are few choices, especially for children, and they never found one.

Good to know, for the future.

In the meantime, I had my mom bring in corn-free popsicles, which were a huge success.

We all breathed a sigh of relief, putting our hopes for good health right there on that popsicle stick.

But she couldn't sleep. She began to get agitated. She had screaming fits.

She wanted to go home.

I didn't realize it at the time, but her behavior was showing me signs that she'd been exposed to corn.

It's my job to protect her, and I do so, fiercely, every moment of the day.

I watched the nurses like a hawk, questioning everything they brought in, making sure they'd washed their hands, bringing only my own approved popsicles, juice and broth.

How could I have known? Sysco brand cups, the type the hospital supplied for her popsicles, juice and broth, contained corn. In an effort to be more eco-friendly (which I obviously support), had replaced the polystyrene in their products with corn.

When kept cold, with the popsicles and juice, the corn in the cups only leeched into her system in minute amounts.

But when the nurse warmed her broth in the cup right before bed, the heat released a deluge of corn, right into my baby girl's mouth.

Thank goodness, she only drank an ounce before falling asleep next to me, exhausted.

Soon, she woke. Coughing. Crying. Screaming.

I buzzed the nurse and asked for motrin.

And then I turned on the light.

Her face, my beautiful baby girls' face, was distorted and swollen, and she was clawing at her mouth.

I buzzed the nurse a dozen times, afraid to leave for even a moment.

I grabbed Blythe's Zyrtec out of my purse, but the nurse took it from me, saying she needed the doctor's approval first.

I told her she'd better go get that approval, NOW, because it wasn't going to be pretty if we didn't stop the reaction.

She ran for the phone.

Blythe was screaming. Crying. Flailing. Kicking.

She yanked off her heart monitor and threw herself against the rails of the bed. Clawed at her face.

The nurse ran back in and said, "OK! Do it!" and I could see that her hands were shaking as she handed me the bottle of medicine.

I couldn't get the Zyrtec into Blythe's mouth, she was thrashing too much. The nurse tried to hold her down, but most of it spilled.

We waited a minute. Two.

I looked at the nurse and said, "It's too late. She needs Epinephrine, and she needs it NOW. I have an Epi-Pen in my purse."

"I need to call the doctor and ask," she replied, and ran from the room.

Blythe somehow ended up on the floor, throwing herself repeatedly into the tile, into the wall, into my legs.

"Mommy HELP ME!" she screamed as the hit herself in the face, neck, chest.

"I'm trying, baby," I whispered, reaching out for her.

She smacked my hand and went into the bathroom, trailing her IV line.

Three more nurses arrived and just watched my baby thrash around in pain.

I screamed at them, "Get the Epinephrine! Her insides are on FIRE, don't you understand?"

The answer I got infuriated me. They told me if she'd stopped breathing, they'd have given the
Epi to her immediately, but since she was breathing, they had to wait for the doctor.

Blythe started tearing the tape off of her IV. "It HURTS!" she screamed.

I wrapped my legs around her body and held one arm still as a nurse tried to save the IV.

Blythe's body had become incredibly strong, and I struggled to hold her down. She screamed and thrashed against me, begging me to make it stop.

The nurse pushed the call button over and over and over again, and told me she was so sorry.

Finally, the charge nurse arrived with the Epinephrine and, tears streaming down my face, I lifted my red and swollen child up for them to put it into her IV.

It took every ounce of strength I could muster to keep from dropping her while she flailed in my arms.

And in a moment, finally, it was over.

She collapsed against me, weeping.

I sat on the hospital bed, my arms around her, and sobbed, "Thank you".

To Blythe. To the staff. To God.

They left us alone, and we lay there together, both of our tears falling down her face.

Blythe's nurse came back in.

She told me I was strong.

She told me she was sorry.

She told me she hadn't believed me when I told her Blythe was having an allergic reaction, that she just thought Blythe was throwing the worlds biggest temper tantrum, and had maybe hit herself in the face to cause the swelling.

She told me she'd never seen anything like that, and that it had scared her.

For hours we lay there in the dark, unable to sleep after what we'd been through.

And then, wrapped up together, Blythe and I finally fell asleep.

Blythe in the Hospital - Day One

Andrea Edwards — 2009-11-14T18:38:00Z

*We are home, and Blythe is well on her way to good health. But I need to write about this. I have to get it out of my head.*

Blythe woke up happy and playful, peeking up at me with her huge smile and sparkling eyes.

We snuggled her in our bed, breathing in her smell and giggling as she tickled us.

Suddenly, she got sick. One moment she was laughing, and the next, she said she "had to spit".

At first, she wanted to play between vomit sessions. She didn't understand why I wouldn't let her go outside. Soon, she just wanted to be held.

Within four hours, she had stopped responding when I spoke to her.

As they drew Blythe's blood and put in her IV line, I held her head in my hands and whispered to her that I was right there with her, that she would be well soon. She stared blankly at the wall, never acknowledging the nurses as they worked above her. She made no sound as the poked and prodded her.

She just lay there like a sack of potatoes, the sparkle long gone from her eyes.

Before too long, we were lying in Blythe's hospital bed, waiting for her dextrose-free IV fluid to arrive. The staff scrambled to find corn free medication, tape, everything. Severe corn allergy was a complete unknown to them.

I studied my baby girl as she watched the cartoons I'd turned on for her. Occasionally, her eyes would flicker, the only indication that she was actually seeing the images on the screen.

I wanted so badly to see her smile, to hear her laugh. To see her do anything besides vomit and stare.

I squeezed her hand, and she squeezed mine back, the first response I'd gotten in hours. My baby girl was in there somewhere, fighting to come back.

Her Daddy came to see her, and she smiled the faintest smile. He held her limp body and rocked her back and forth, back and forth.

We felt so powerless to help her.

She slept easily that first night. The nurses came in frequently, but she would open her eyes for a moment and fall quickly back to sleep.

I lay in the fold-out bed next to her, waking each half hour to kiss her, to feel her, to see for myself that she was breathing, monitors be damned.

Once, twice, three times, her fever spiked.

Her body was riding a roller coaster of sickness, and we were holding on for dear life.

Just before daylight, I was sitting on her bed, caressing her leg.

Her eyelids fluttered, and she looked right at me.

Right into my eyes.

And spoke.

"Mommy, go to your bed. I'm sleeping."

I cried, and silently cheered, and my heart finally broke free of fear's terrifying grip.

My girl was coming back to me.

Put 'em Up!

Andrea Edwards — 2009-11-09T22:49:00Z

I've been doing a ton of research, trying to make the best possible decision for Blythe regarding the H1N1 vaccination. So much of the information I've found has been contradictory, which makes it hard to feel well educated on the issue.

After discussing our options with several of the medical professionals in Blythe's life, I went into the weekend feeling torn. Even knowing there was a possibility that we could get our grubby little hands on one of the very rare preservative-free injectable vaccines, I was hesitant.

I stopped by PsychMamma's blog, knowing that she also has a daughter with a compromised immune system, and was floored by the plethora of information she had to offer.

Not only does she have an amazing post up about the H1N1 Vaccine, she also has more than a dozen suggestions on how to fight the flu (H1N1 or otherwise), naturally. All of her tips are things that can be easily implemented, and I'm happy to say I discovered that we'd already been doing several of them here at home.

With so much great information, I feel like we've got our dukes up, ready to fight the flu season mano-a-mano.

Take a moment and head over there, will you? It will only take a moment, but could save you and your family from getting sick.

Seriously, what are you waiting for? GO!

Sixteen Years

Andrea Edwards — 2009-11-06T19:52:00Z

Dear Alex,

Sixteen years you've been gone.

After all this time, you are still such a part of our lives. We talk about what you would have thought or said or done as life's moments pass us by.

We miss your humor, your hugs, your thoughtfulness. We think about how our lives would be different if you had lived. Would we have made our biggest mistakes with you there? You were so good at pointing us in the right direction.

You were the glue, Alex. The rock. The light.

You are so missed. So incredibly loved. Today and every day.

Who You'd Be Today ~ by Kenny Chesney

Sunny days seem to hurt the most
I wear the pain like a heavy coat
I feel you everywhere I go

I see your smile, I see your face
I hear you laughing in the rain
I still can't believe you're gone

It ain't fair, you died too young
Like a story that had just begun
But death, tore the pages all away

God knows how I miss you
All the hell that I've been through
Just knowing no one could take your place

Sometimes, I wonder... who you'd be today

Would you see the world?
Would you chase your dreams?
Settle down with a family?
I wonder, what would you name your babies?

Some days the sky's so blue
I feel like I can talk to you
And I know it might sound crazy

It ain't fair, you died too young
Like a story that had just begun
But death, tore the pages all away

God knows how I miss you
All the hell that I've been through
Just knowing no one could take your place

Sometimes I wonder... who you'd be today

Today, Today, Today
Today, Today, Today

Sunny days seem to hurt the most
I wear the pain like a heavy coat
The only thing that gives me hope
Is I know, I'll see you again someday

Someday, Someday...

By the Light of the Moon

Andrea Edwards — 2009-11-04T03:22:00Z

I crept into her room by the light of the moon.

In her ear I whispered, "Don't ever leave me, baby".

She breathed deeply.

She sighed.

I pressed my lips upon her forehead.

Her tiny fingers wrapped around my hand.

Finally, she sleeps through the night.

Two and a half years of waking, and she sleeps.

But I wake. And I wander.

I breathe in her smell and lay my head on her pillow.

I brush my lips across hers.

I pray. Lately I don't pray much. But over her, I do.

"Please God, be with my baby girls. Keep them safe."

And He does.

By the light of day, they run and laugh and quarrel.

From one sunrise to the next.

And by the light of the moon, I watch them dream.

Wordless Wednesday: Oh JOY!

Andrea Edwards — 2009-10-28T20:38:00Z

Joy, 9 weeks

American Bulldog

To Vaccinate or Not to Vaccinate

Andrea Edwards — 2009-10-21T21:12:00Z

The last time Blythe received vaccinations, she was 5 months old.

Her body reacted so severely, so horribly - she has never been the same. Her pediatric allergist has confirmed that her food allergies were triggered by those vaccinations, and she continues to avoid all immunizations based on his recommendation.

However.

We are discussing a plan to immunize Blythe against H1N1.

There are risks associated with administering the vaccination, yes, including the (remote) possibility of developing Guillain-Barre Syndrome. But based on her medical history, between her asthma and compromised immune system, she is at severe risk of developing what the medical community likes to call "complications" if she were to contract H1N1.

And so we try to decide between:

a factor we can control, which would be to administer the vaccination for H1N1 in her pediatric allergist's office, with a plan in place, of course, should she have a reaction. I would plan to stay home with her for five days following the immunization, to give her system time to recoup;

~or~

a factor we cannot control, which would be to take our chances and hope she doesn't contract H1N1 - or, if she were to be exposed, hope beyond all hope that she wouldn't have any complications.

Go ahead and read between the lines with that word: complications.

I have. My heart skips a beat every time I hear about another child developing complications from H1N1, most of whom have pre-existing conditions. Exactly like Blythe. Many of those parents have lost their children to complications. That sentence, alone, terrifies me beyond comprehension.

It's a difficult decision to make, one I wish I didn't have to make, but such is life.

Sometimes, choosing the lesser of two evils just has to be good enough to get us through the night.

Fan Club

Andrea Edwards — 2009-10-21T02:18:00Z

Alison's class went on their first field trip last week.

I chaperoned, of course, because I'm an excellent parent. And also because a certain number of volunteer hours are required, and field trips knock out a whole lot of them in one shot.

Right after we got there, I overheard a parent asking the teacher to point out which kid was "Alison".

Being the even-tempered, non-confrontational person I am, I whipped my head around so fast I got a little dizzy, and then eavesdropped.

What, wouldn't you?

Turns out, Alison has a little bit of a fan club. Made up entirely of boys in her class. All of whom clamor to sit next to her, vote for her as best reader, and hope for some of her attention.

Yes, a fan club at the age of five.

After I confirmed with the teacher that this was, in fact, an innocent thing she had under control, I looked at my girl and cheered for her silently.

My shy, socially awkward child has a fan club. My different child. Has a fan club.

And while she probably won't always have one - good Lord, I hope she doesn't always have one, - I want to put this moment down in words for Alison.

Because, one day, probably deep in the throes of teen angst, she's going to tell me no one likes her, and that she doesn't have any friends.

When that day comes, I want her to know that without even trying, she was adored. By someone other than her mom and dad, of course, since we don't count when it comes to that sort of thing.

Let's just hope this whole fan club thing doesn't go to her head.

Blog Action Day 2009: Climate Change

Andrea Edwards — 2009-10-15T19:41:00Z

Living on a ranch, my family has a fairly unique perspective on climate change.

We are able to see the effects global warming has on our crops and animals, and we try to accommodate those changes on a day to day basis. In turn, we are also able to combat climate change in ways that go beyond that of the average American.

Here are some steps my family has taken, or continues to take, to reduce our carbon footprint.

In and on our home:

* A large solar paneling system
* Energy Star appliances, electronics, windows, doors, heating and air units
* Sky lights
* Aluminum-lined roof sheeting
* Insulated walls built with 2x6's rather than 2x4's
* Environmentally friendly cleaning supplies
* Ceiling fans
* CFL light bulbs

On our ranch:

* A garden full of our favorite fruits and veggies
* Feeding scrap food to our chickens
* Composting our chicken's waste to create natural fertilizer for our garden
* Discing our fields to reduce fire hazard and improve soil quality
* A gray-water irrigation system for our pasture
* Pasture and hay feeding our cattle
* Feeding our lawn and tree trimmings to our livestock
* Keeping a worm farm, and feeding it with coffee grounds
* Using a drip irrigation system for our garden, lawn and trees
* Trading goods with neighbors and friends

In our general lives:

* Always purchasing a living Christmas tree, and planting it after the holidays
* Reusable cloth tote bags for shopping
* Recycling
* Fuel-efficient vehicles
* Carpooling whenever possible
* Sharing magazine subscriptions with friends and family
* Donating and purchasing used clothing, furniture, toys, etc.
* Shopping locally whenever possible, including farmer's markets

Our ranch isn't fully sustainable year-round, but for most months of the year, we could easily live without stepping foot off of our own property. We hope, eventually, to be completely sustainable and eliminate our family's carbon footprint altogether.

I'd love to hear how you're fighting climate change!

Go here for some amazing suggestions. And go here to find out more about Blog Action Day 09!

Findings and Failures

Andrea Edwards — 2009-10-07T18:32:00Z

I've been immersed in information.

Sensory Processing Disorder, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, recommended therapies, parenting styles for special needs children, how to handle highly sensitive kids, the best route to social integration.

I'm trying so hard to remain positive. The truth of the matter is, Blythe is already improving, thanks to her wonderful, amazing, -insert a million positive adjectives here- therapist. Last week she touched a feather boa! Touched it! Willingly! I can't tell you what a huge step that is for her.

I have so much hope for the future.

And yet, I'm also angry. Resentful, even.

Blythe has a lump on her head. A lump I noticed when she was about 3 months of age and pointed out to her pediatrician - the same doctor who blatantly ignored Blythe's food allergies - the one assigned to us by the (expletive) HMO we had. She told me it wasn't a lump, it just felt like one because she had a flat spot in front of it. She suggested we get a sleep positioner and encourage tummy time.

Ok. Done.

She was wrong. It's a lump of Cerebrospinal Fluid, located between her skull and her scalp. It's the reason she won't let us touch her head, why she cries when I attempt to brush her hair, why she screams when I reach for the shampoo bottle. It's the reason for a lot of things.

I'm angry because that (expletive) HMO, and that pediatrician failed my daughter. Repeatedly FAILED.

And she has SUFFERED because of those failures. Her food allergies, her gastro-intestinal problems, the LUMP ON HER HEAD.

FAIL, FAIL, FAIL.

Until two weeks ago, Blythe had only slept through the night a handful of times. Most nights, she'd wake up crying at least twice, but sometimes four or five times. That's over 2 years of horrible sleep, for both of us.

Since we've started the physical therapy for her lump and her upper GI tract (daily massage) she has only woken up crying once. Two weeks worth of amazing, wonderful, sleep. Oh, the joy. But that's sleep we could have been getting a long time ago if only the people we trusted to treat our daughter hadn't failed her. FAILED!

My child has suffered through what I can only assume are terrible headaches and belly pain, almost every night of her life.

My baby. Suffered. Almost every night of her life.

I would be lying if I didn't admit that I feel as though I've failed her, too. But I am not a medical professional, I am a mother just trying to help her daughter to be well. Is that so much to ask?

With all this talk of health care reform, I don't know what the future holds. What I do know is, people deserve decent care from their doctors. That (expletive) HMO we belonged to was great for routine care. But for someone with special needs?

Failure, ignorance, and a horrible attitude.

I begged them to help me find out what was wrong with my baby. We saw every available doctor in the facility, trying to find someone who could tell us something. They would look at her chart and confirm the previous doctor's diagnosis, sometimes without even looking at Blythe.

They wouldn't even look at her.

I don't care how cheap it is, I will never entrust my family's care to that kind of organization, ever again. I will pay the $1000 per month health insurance, even if I have to sell everything I own, because my daughter deserves real help.

No one should be made to suffer because of lack of decent health care.

Especially not my sweet little girl.

Older

Andrea Edwards — 2009-10-03T18:20:00Z

It's my birthday! I'm officially another year older.

Thirty-two, in case anyone was going to congratulate me on looking so young for forty. I'm saving you from having to put your foot in your mouth. My gift to you, on my birthday.

To celebrate my big day, I got a yeast infection. Yay, me!

I'm not all that surprised, since I've been on antibiotics for 12 days now. It was only a matter of time before something started to fester.

The good news is, after almost 6 weeks of coughing up gunk, my lungs are finally starting to feel clear.

*hack* *cough* *inhaler puff* *ahem*

There's nothing like a hacking cough and an itchy crotch to make you feel younger on your birthday!

You should try it sometime.

No, really.

Last night my family and best-good friends came over for some home cookin' and peanut butter brownies. Maura, I'm sorry. I didn't save you any.

Today, my wonderful husband is taking me to a wine and beer festival and then to dinner at my favorite Thai restaurant.

The weather is 85 degrees with a cool breeze. Perfect.

When asked what I wanted for my birthday this year, I was at a complete loss. I couldn't think of a single thing. I have all I need, and everything I want.

Who could ask for more than that?

* For those of you who have emailed, commented and/or DM'd me recently, I am not intentionally ignoring you! I promise I will respond soon. I'm just lame and hacking up green stuff. *

Special

Andrea Edwards — 2009-09-28T13:51:00Z

I have a child with Special Needs.

There. I said it.

I hate the images that term conjures up in my head.

Visions of her sitting in a classroom, separate from her peers, an aide by her side.

Although, with the amazing therapist she's working with, I truly hope she'll be able to integrate seamlessly with her schoolmates when the time comes.

Last week, Blythe had her first therapy appointment for her OCD. While we were there, the psych also tested Blythe's ability to tolerate sensory changes.

The results were not so good, although not entirely unexpected.

Sensory Processing Disorder.

Another disorder. Another ailment to add to her list. Another hurdle for her to overcome. It's not as if she didn't have it before, it just didn't have a name.

Now, we have an action plan. The therapies for SPD and OCD are similar enough that they can be combined.

There are also things we can do at home. We're supposed to push her limits just until she starts to get uncomfortable, and then back off.

- We're to have her ride on her daddy's shoulders every evening, and then reward her with a popsicle.

- We're to rub her tummy.

- We're to play "shampoo" on her head with a puppet.

- We're to explore touching new textures and fabrics.

- We're to talk about how they feel to us, and encourage her to tell us how they feel to her.

I'm excited that we have so many treatment options. But saddened. I can't help it.

She has Special Needs, but she is just my beautiful, sweet, charming baby girl.

OCD

Andrea Edwards — 2009-09-17T19:13:00Z

Blythe, my sweet angel child, has always been what I like to call quirky.

I have no problem with quirky - I mean, we all have our eccentricities. She does seem to be adding to the list pretty rapidly lately, but, hey. Terrible two's, anyone?

Recently, though, when I took Blythe to work with me and she ended up randomly freaking out *understatement*, one of the other preschool teachers asked if she has sensory integration issues.

My immediate response was, "No," but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that some of her peculiarities might actually be signs of something more serious.

Some of them include:

She ONLY sleeps through the night when her bed is made with her pink microfiber sheet.
She HAS to wear full-bodied, cotton, footed pajamas. With a zipper. It's that, or be nu.de.
She potty trained herself because she doesn't like diapers (certainly not complaining, there)
She needs bottles. NEEDS. They comfort her like nothing else.
She is terrified of costumes: especially wigs and feather boas. TERRIFIED.
She HATES certain colors. Asking her to touch them is like asking her to eat poop and like it.

I called our child psychologist, on a Saturday, no less and set up an appointment to get Blythe evaluated. I wonder if she regrets giving me her cell phone number, yet?

Today, we have some good news. She doesn't think Blythe has sensory integration problems.

The tentative diagnosis? Obsessive Compulsive Disorder - OCD.

Feckity feck feck feck. ~Hey Kia, I hope you know I'm going to be all up in your grill now that both of our kids have been diagnosed. Stealing your signature "feck" is just the beginning.~

Fortunately, we already have a great relationship with our psych because of the amazing work she's done with Alison, so I think we're already a step ahead.

Even so, a part of me is just screaming inside, because: DUDE! Like this kid needs more issues to deal with! Aren't the severe food allergies and the compromised immune system and the asthma and all the other things that go along with those ENOUGH, already?

*Deep breath*

It's going to be OK. Just another bump in the road.

She's going to be her own little version of fine.

Yes, she will. We will.

What a Day

Andrea Edwards — 2009-09-10T21:15:00Z

*Oops, I forgot to publish this on Tuesday. See? What a day.*

Three day weekends are great and all, but if Tuesday mornings end up being like this, I'd rather just skip the holiday, thank you very much.

Warning! Bitch session begins in 3...2...1:

Last night I had a little crying bout, probably because I *ahem* went off my meds without permission and felt the need to keep Jeremy up until midnight talking about my emotional issues. He was great about it, truly. And when he started snoring I stopped talking. Eventually.

This morning my alarm *somehow* got shut off and I slept, all cozy and warm, until 15 minutes after the kids were supposed to be up. Why is it they're up at 5 am on Saturday, but they sleep in on weekdays when I need them to get me out of bed on time?

I put in a movie and threw food at them so that I could hop in the shower. Of course I had to shave because it's a teaching day for me, which means a skirt. And no, I won't go hairy just because they're preschoolers. They have a knack for not only noticing things like hairy legs and armpits, but also for asking questions about them.

Imagine this: "Hey Teacha? Why you legs got prickles? My mommy doesn't got those, but my daddy does. Teacha, are you a boy?" Only 20 times and with a lot more snot.

Finally washed and shaved, I was getting dressed when Alison announced that Blythe pooped. She's potty trained, so I wasn't too worried until Blythe came in with her little sad face and said, "I had uh assident, mommy" and pointed at the poop all down her leg.

Clean clean clean... wipe wipe wipe.

And where did she poop? On the floor of her room, naturally. Glance at the clock. Holy crap, cleancleanclean-wipewipewipe.

Alison wanted her hair pink today, so I coated her ponytail with that spray on stuff for Halloween, because I am just the coolest mom on the planet. Of course once we arrived at school, Alison realized other kids were going to *gasp* notice! And talk to her! Because she had pink hair!

So I had to clean it off, and it's not like we were early or even on time at that point.

I arrived at work only a couple of minutes late, and only a little bedraggled, and ready to face the day. Until now I've somehow avoided having to take the entire 2 year old class to the bathroom for a potty break, but, hey! today was as good a day as any to break me in.

Let me just say, dealing with my own kids' poop is one thing - but other kids? I seriously had a hard time not gagging. Multiple wet pants, lots of hand washing, and I accidentally left one kid behind when we went back to class.

All three of my classes today were out of freaking control. What is it about 3 day weekends that makes kids act like complete maniacs?

Hmmmm. Maybe it's because their mom put on a movie and threw random food at them this morning, so that she could take a shower....

Wake Up One Day...

Andrea Edwards — 2009-09-01T04:59:00Z

One day, you're dreaming the dream.

You're in college, with your entire future ahead of you. You and your best friend talk about one day living in a scarcely decorated studio apartment in The City, working for some big corporation and eating sushi and escargot. The world is your oyster, and damn it tastes good.

Before you know it, you're living the dream.

Married, driving an SUV, 2.5 kids (the .5 being your niece, whose mom is in prison for who the hell knows how long), dogs, cats, mortgage payments. You know the drill.

Meanwhile, your best friend has moved to New York City, doing all the things you stayed up all night talking about. You're so damn happy for her, but a little part of you, the part with all the rebellious piercings, feels left behind.

Life is so vanilla bean good and sweet and everything you never knew you wanted.

And then, another day comes along and you're filling out forms for your kid's school and suddenly you catch yourself thinking that joining the PTO might be fun, and you realize that maybe you need a tattoo.

Or possibly, maybe, your husband could teach you to drive his motorcycle.

Something, anything, to make you feel like the girl who someday planned to take a big city by storm.

And then, your baby girl climbs into your lap and snuggles into your chest. She tells you, in her cute little toddler voice, that she loves you. Her hair smells like fruit fresh from the vine. Her chubby fingers caress your neck and as you kiss her cheek, you realize: there is no comparison to this life.

It may not be what you dreamed of. You may not be taking anything but piles of laundry by storm.

But oh, what a life it is.

And anyway, your best friend would always welcome a visit.

Cuteness and Sweetness and Poop, Oh My!

Andrea Edwards — 2009-08-30T23:00:00Z

It's happened again.

I've been roped into taking care of -and selling - another litter of AKC Lab puppies.

Oh, the cuteness.

Oh, the sweetness.

Oh the... poop. Right.

We started out with 9, and now we're down to 4. We should be down to 3, because a lady called this morning and said she wanted to drive up from the Bay Area, Today! To get a Puppy! And could I please see her, Today! So she could get a puppy! Today!

She was so eager that I agreed, even though my parents took the kids all day so that I could help Jeremy work on a house that needs to be finished. By Tuesday. As in, two days from now, Tuesday.

"I'll leave right now," she said, "so I can be there by noon."

"Ok, I can do that" I said, because, I do have some work to catch up on in the office.

People? It is 4 in the frackin afternoon.

She has not called.

She is not answering her phone.

I have left two messages.

What to do, what to do? I can't just leave. She could be a puppy-napper.

And those are my cute, sweet, poopin' puppies!

Neurotic Dishwashing: A Tutorial

Andrea Edwards — 2009-08-28T16:59:00Z

I can't just wash a dish and let it be, because I am a special brand of crazy.

It's why I'd rather pick hay out of my husbands socks every day for the rest of my life than wash dishes. Why I'd prefer to scrub the diarrhea out of my child's underwear than wash dishes. Why I'd rather pick up trash on the side of the highway than wash dishes.

Well, that might actually be going a little far.

So, people? The dosage of my meds just isn't high enough to battle a broken dishwasher, especially not for a whole damn week. The planet, my family, and my sanity need me to have a dishwasher.

Here's a little peek into my neurotic dish washing. Welcome to my world.

First of all: don't even think about using a germ infested, disgusting sponge: washable dishcloths or paper towels only.

To get started, the dirty dishes must be rinsed and wiped off with a paper towel before being stacked on the counter to the right of the sink in an orderly fashion. Which means, front to back and top to bottom, with littlest items on top. First bottles, then glasses, then cups, then bowls, plates, left-over containers, pots, pans, and finally, silver wear.

After everything has been rinsed, wiped and stacked, both sinks and the counter to the left of the sink must be scrubbed until they sparkle and shine.

Next, plug up the right hand sink and fill it with scalding hot water. If you've got kids, you've probably turned your water heater down, so you'll have to remember to crank that baby up about an hour before you do the dishes. Don't forget to turn it back down later!

Pump in two squirts of dish soap, and start dropping in the ~~baby'~~s toddler's bottles.

While they soak for exactly five minutes, put a large towel on the left hand counter.

Thoroughly scrub the ~~baby's~~ toddler's bottles - don't forget the bottle brush! Drop them into the sparkling clean left hand sink.

Put the next set of items into the soapy water to soak. You guessed it, for exactly five minutes.

Rinse each of the ~~baby's~~ toddler's bottles with scalding hot water exactly five times. Hang them to try on the bottle drying rack.

Continue through the rest of the groups of dishes, replacing paper towel/washable dishcloth and the lukewarm, suds-less dishwater with fresh, scalding hot, soapy water after every 2-3 groups, depending on how large they are.

Add extra hot water and a dash of earth-friendly bleach to the last group, silver wear, and let them soak for a full ten minutes before washing.

When finished, scrub the counter to the right of the sink until it sparkles and shines. Wipe out the sinks.

Pour yourself a stiff drink and liberally apply moisturizer to your scaly, wrinkly, peeling, red hands while you let the dishes air dry for a few minutes. Don't let them sit too long, though, or some dust may land on them and you will consider them dirty.

Put your feet up, you deserve it! And hey, pretty soon it's time to make lunch! or dinner! or snack! and then you can start the whole process over again.

If you're lucky, your husband will pick up on your crazy pretty quickly and, since he doesn't do it right and you won't let him help you, he'll offer to get a brand new dishwasher and install it himself that very day.

He is so getting lucky later. As if being married to you doesn't make him lucky enough!

The Business of Being Born

Andrea Edwards — 2009-08-26T03:26:00Z

Did you know I'm an ICEA certified Childbirth Educator? Well, I am.

I don't get a chance to teach very often these days, but when I do, I specialize in natural childbirth.

Make no mistake: I don't believe that all births should be au-natural. Every birth is different; every woman is different, and I respect that.

I'm a big proponent of women having the birth they want. I'm all about empowerment, and knowledge, and informed decisions.

You have scheduled C-Sections? Fine by me. You want an epidural the moment the elevator doors open? More power to you.

I focus on natural childbirth education because it's my niche, and there aren't a lot of places women can go to learn about how to successfully give birth without intervention.

If you haven't seen the amazing documentary, The Business of Being Born, directed by Abby Epstein and produced by Ricki Lake (both of their pregnancies/births are also covered in the film), you should.

It's about natural childbirth, certainly. But the movie also sheds an amazing amount of light on the medical business that surrounds birth.

The makers of this amazing and profound documentary, who also created a book and website, both titled My Best Birth, are currently making a new film, and I have been asked to submit footage from both Alison's and Blythe's births.

I am humbled, awed, and incredibly excited to be included in this wonderful venture.

The births of my children were amazing and exactly what I hoped they would be, mainly because I chose to give birth at a Birth Center*, where I knew my quiet voice would be heard.

In childbirth, I found strength within myself that went beyond anything I'd ever experienced in my lifetime. I love to share my birth videos with people, especially because they are pretty much *G* Rated - which means no cootchie shots!

I hope one of my births is chosen for the movie. But even if not, I can't wait to see what the film holds in store.

Childbirth is my passion! What's yours?

*Click on the link, and then click "Our Families" to see photos of us after both Alison's and Blythe's births!*

So Where the Hell is my Ring?

Andrea Edwards — 2009-08-25T13:16:00Z

Part 1 of this story is ~Here~

I had just carelessly tossed what I thought was something disgusting, only to be told it contained a diamond ring. For me.

The moonlight, which had seemed so romantic only a moment before, now seemed ridiculously inadequate for combing miles of beach for something small and, well, sand covered.

To his credit, Jeremy only let me search for a minute or ~~five~~ two before telling me he was kidding about the ring. Long enough for him to have a good chuckle, but not long enough for me to lose my fracking mind.

I begged him to promise me he wasn't just saying that to make me feel better, but I couldn't be sure.

Especially when, at breakfast the following morning, our friend told us he'd heard of someone finding a diamond ring on the beach with one of those treasure-finding metal detectors.

"It's too bad you never even got to see it," Jeremy said solemnly before winking at me and assuring me, again, that they were just kidding.

With each passing day, I thought more about that gooshy ball, trying to remember whether or not I'd felt something hard inside of it. If Jeremy had the ring, he wouldn't continue to make me wait, would he?

Finally, after a few more moonlit strolls along the beach, Jeremy got down on one knee and asked me to be his wife. He claims he said more than that, but I couldn't tell you for sure.

I was too busy looking at my beautiful, hand-engraved engagement ring.

I'm fairly certain that if I had thrown it away, he would have given me one made out of seaweed.

Surprise, it's Something Gross!

Andrea Edwards — 2009-08-24T17:38:00Z

My husband, Jeremy, likes to keep me on my toes by surprising me.

Occasionally it's with things like fresh-picked roses or a pint of Ben & Jerry's, but more often than not he surprises me with something gross.

He'll kiss me passionately, only to push some chewed up piece of plastic into my mouth with his tongue.

He'll tell me to come and see something cool, and I discover a decapitated or disemboweled rat.

I love him dearly. Who wouldn't?

We'd been dating for about 4 years when we took a week-long vacation to beautiful and romantic Cancun with our friends Kimberly and Fausto, who had just gotten married.

Our first night there, Jeremy took me for a moonlit stroll on the beach.

There was soft white sand as far as the eye could see, and the beach was deserted except for the two of us. The warm ocean lapped gently beside us as we walked, hand in hand, discussing our friends' wedding.

He held me in his arms as we stared out to sea, where the moon reflected on the water like a path to eternity. I sighed contentedly as I leaned my head against his shoulder.

"Here, have this," he said quietly.

He dropped something small and round into my palm. I glanced at what appeared to be a small ball covered in sand, and closed my hand.

It was squishy. Gooey. Disgusting.

"Thanks," I said as I threw it over my shoulder. I heard a quiet thud as it landed somewhere in the miles of sand that lay behind us.

"Just so you know," he whispered in my ear, "there was a diamond ring in there."

To be continued.....

Teacha, Teacha!

Andrea Edwards — 2009-08-19T21:19:00Z

I started a Brand! New! Job! yesterday.

I'm teaching two mornings a week at the preschool Alison attended, which is also where Blythe will be going. Not only am I looking forward to the rewarding blah, blah, blah, but I'm also excited about all the blog fodder these kids are going to provide me with.

From my first day:

A 3 year old, putting on his shoes, looks at my feet and says:

Boy: " Hey Teacha, why you shoes little like mines?"

Me: "That's just the size of my feet."

Boy: "Oh, sowwy you feet didn't growed."

Me, torn between letting it drop and correcting his grammar: "Uhh.... thanks."

I'll admit, I was a little nervous about my patience level. I've taught preschool before, and I was damn good at it, too, but that was before I became a parent. I never lost my patience back then, when I got to walk away from children at the end of the day and go do whatever the hell I wanted.

Now that I have been home with my own kids for nearly six years... let's just say, my bullshit threshold is a ~~lot~~ tad lower. I was worried I couldn't hack it.

But teaching was great, awesome, and wonderful in so many ways that each of them deserves their own dedicated and thoughtful post. Which I don't have time to share at the moment, because it's not like I traded in any of my other responsibilities when I donned my new teaching hat.

The one drawback to my new job is that it's a fairly structured school which means, you guessed it, a dress code. For me.

So, today Blythe and I took a trip to Target where I pre-spent my first paycheck on pants and shoes, because my closet goes: jeans - flip-flops - fancy. And you're out of your mind if you think I'm letting a bunch of preschoolers wipe their ~~snot~~ paint on my fancy pants.

Back to Life, Back to Reality Updated

Andrea Edwards — 2009-08-17T19:10:00Z

It's Alison first day of First Grade.

I woke up after only two! hits of the snooze button, and didn't let the discovery of an enormous zit on my face send me back to bed, as it would have if I were the one returning to school.

Because, you know, it wouldn't be the first day of school without an eruption from Mount Vesuvius.

Blythe and I got ready quickly and excitedly, but Alison refused to get out of bed.

REFUSED.

I had to promise her multiple treats. A smoothie on the way. A sucker after. My left kidney.

I had to inform her that I would go to jail if she played hooky. Yes, California is that serious about their test scores.

I had to dress her. Which was about as fun as dressing a jelly fish.

I had to hold her down to run a comb through her hair.

I had to look at this face.

And smile encouragingly.

I had to trust that having her best friend in her class again this year would be enough to get her through the day.

I had to say goodbye, even though tears were streaming down her face and she was clinging to me for dear life.

I had to turn and walk away.

Knowing that she might cry now, but soon, she is going to be loving school just as she did last year.

I hope.

* Edited to add: It's day 3, and she continues to drag her feet on our way to school, and clings to me at drop-off. However, once the day gets started she has a blast and is happy at pick-up. Babysteps!

Snooze

Andrea Edwards — 2009-08-14T16:41:00Z

It's that time of year.

The time when we have to start waking up on time. To get somewhere, on time.

I decided that we'd spend this week getting used to the new (old) schedule so that when school starts next Monday, it wouldn't be a shocker.

I've been setting my alarm at 6:30, so that I can be up, showered, and ready with breakfast on the table when I wake the kids up at 7:15. So that I can get them up, ready, and out the door by 8:00.

How is it going, you ask?

Well, apparently I like playing this game called "snooze". Where I try to see how many times I can hit snooze before Blythe wakes up for the day. And in that game, I am able to immediately return to sleep between beeps of the alarm.

Even though, every time I'm woken up all damn night, whether by Alison or Blythe or the dogs or the cats or some cricket chirping like its performing an opera, it takes me a full hour to get back to sleep.

Right now, it's 9:45 am on Friday. I'm in my pajamas. Blythe is nekkid. Alison is still sleeping.

No one has had breakfast.

I hope no one minds if we all show up in pajamas on Monday. Possibly two hours late, and hungry.

Out of the Abyss

Andrea Edwards — 2009-08-12T04:27:00Z

I walked through life upon a tight rope.

At times, it was 10 feet wide. Others, it was mere millimeters.

I fell, silently. My voice was stolen at the age of 12. I was unable to cry for help.

Below, an abyss. A deep, dark, prickly place.

I was walking along, happier than I'd been for some time, when I stumbled.

The abyss was waiting for me, with its greedy claws outstretched.

*

This time, I clung to the rope above me. I didn't want to fall. Not this time. Please, not this time.

I clung. Limp. Barely holding on. Invisible to those passing by.

But you. You. You know who you are. You noticed. You stopped. You grabbed onto what remained of my self, and you pulled with all your might. You didn't know why. You didn't know how, but you pulled against the abyss, anyway.

I know you hear me say thank you. But can you ever know what it means to me to be pulled, unscathed, from the abyss? It almost swallowed me whole for the millionth time, and you saved me. You helped me to find my voice. Thank you will never be enough.

And Nic. You changed my life with your story. We are sisters, you and I. Sisters of sorrow, of grief and of unimaginable pain, but also of survival. Your strength gives me hope for the future.

Quieter than the squeak of a field mouse, I spoke. Filled with anger, my voice rose.

You heard me. You stopped. You listened. You gave me strength. Every one of you.

Melissa and Duchess and Sautter and Cindy and Kendra and Neena and Issa and Stacey and Nic and Tracy and Meghan and Jenna and PB and Jazz and Megan and Habanero Gal and Marinka and Heather C. and Kellee and Krissy and Eileen and Samantha and Tricia and Vixen and Lora and Kathy and Greis and Maura and Heather and Katie and Kirsten and Al_Pal and Kari and Kate and Stoneskin and Susan. And always, always, my husband. My trapeze artist, trying to catch me.

The abyss is still there. It will always be there.

For twenty years, it was a deep and lonely chasm I walked above, never knowing when I might fall.

Always, I wondered when my happiness would be taken from me.

But now. There is a safety net below me.

The abyss has lost its power.

Thank you.

* courtesy of google images

The Price of Getting It Done

Andrea Edwards — 2009-08-10T23:00:00Z

We've been remodeling our house for about a year now.

Not the whole thing, just the living room, dining room, and two of the bedrooms. So, let's call that half.

We're almost done. The end is in sight. I can almost taste the normal (construction-free) dust.

This past weekend, I was determined to get the primer coat of paint on our new living room.

The only problem? What to do with my kids while I worked. Don't get me wrong, I'm not above putting a paint roller in their grubby little hands. My husband and I are proud that we've been blatantly ignoring child labor laws for years now, but the kids lost interest after the first 5 minutes.

It only took 8 hours of child-neglect, but I got it done.

So, what happens when a desperate mother puts her 5 year old "in charge" for hours on end?

First, they raided my craft/sewing cabinet. It's not like I ever use any of that stuff anyway, right?

Next, apparently, it was lunch time. So they made swill.

And by the way? Swill really stinks if left to marinate overnight.

So do a dozen bottles. And yeah, my 2 year old still takes a bottle. Wanna make something of it?

Alison decided it was her (4 month old) kitten's birthday, so they had to get into the closet and pull out all the party supplies. And I do mean all of the party supplies.

Please note that Charlie-the-kitten is not present. He hid during the "festivities".

Maybe because of all the blow up animals that showed up for the party?

Before too long, they lost interest in birthdays and decided August is the perfect time to start decorating for Christmas.

Think I can get away with leaving them up until January?

So, what's the price of getting shit done? A big mess, take-out for dinner, whiney kids, and sore shoulders.

But at least it's done. Until tomorrow, when I'll paint it all again.

Thief

Andrea Edwards — 2009-08-07T18:56:00Z

I want him to know what he did to me. Beyond raping me, what he did to my psyche. To my self worth.

I want him to know he's the reason I have a hard time looking at myself in the mirror.

More than that, I want him to feel badly for what he did to me. What he stole from me.

I want him to hurt, deep inside, knowing that he, a grown man, changed the course of a 12 year old girl's life and walked away as if nothing had happened.

If he's married, I want his wife to know every detail so that she can look at him and see the monster I saw in 10 years worth of nightmares.

I hope he has a 12 year old daughter, so that he can look at her an imagine a man doing to her, what he did to me.

If his kids are little, I want him to lay awake at night, afraid of his daughters meeting a man like him. A man who will stalk them like prey, who will weave a web and catch them in it so that he can suck the life right out of them and spit them out as though they are nothing but garbage. I want him to take that fear right out of my head, so he can see what he did to me.

Twenty years has passed. I've never sought counseling. I've never dealt with being a victim.

And I know now, why I haven't.

I'm afraid. Afraid to voice what I've thought all these years: that I deserve what he did to me.

I've worked my ass off to be the best person I can be. Trying to prove to myself that I'm worth something. I've only just realized, that so much I've accomplished in my life has been because I was compensating for being raped.

I didn't deserve what he did to me. No more than someone crossing the street deserves to be run over by a drunk driver. I have to come to terms with that.

Who I am is more than what he made of me. I deserve to move on with my life.

I deserve to look in the mirror and see what other people see, for the first time in 20 years.

Coming

Andrea Edwards — 2009-08-07T17:44:00Z

I can feel it coming.

Like a storm cloud off in the distance.

It rumbles and rolls, inside my head and my heart.

I hate that it can still do this to me.

I wish I could leave the past in the past.

If there were a pill I could take that would wash it away, I would take a dozen.

I can feel it coming.

I have to say I'm sorry, in advance, for what may appear here in the coming days. Weeks?

I have to let it out. It has stormed inside of me for far too long.

Twenty years of letting it beat me down, and finally, I will conquer it.

I'm ready to fight.

This time, I will win.

I will win.

Slippery Slope

Andrea Edwards — 2009-08-06T20:33:00Z

I'm eating ice cream again. For the third time today.

I spent 10 hellacious days giving up sugar, but like a newly sober alcoholic, I thought I'd be strong enough to have an occasional treat without falling into the abyss.

But oh, delicious sugar. How it coaxed me with its chocolaty goodness on my weakest days.

And so I fell. Hard.

I've enjoyed it, I can't lie. But I'm sick. I can't stop.

The sugar, it calls to me from the shelves of the store.

Somehow, it's taken control of my fingers and forced me to endlessly shove ever-sweeter treats into my salivating mouth.

My face is puffy. My stomach is bloated and crampy. I've gained 5 pounds in 7 days.

But still, I can't resist.

Like a lion on a gazelle, I pounce at every opportunity.

Dammit. Here I go again, giving it up. Getting Sugar Sober.

Prepare yourselves for what's to come. It won't be pretty.

Front and Back

Andrea Edwards — 2009-08-03T20:56:00Z

She wakes in the morning, feeling a little blue.

Her favorite dress is hanging in the closet, so she puts it on. It will help her to have a better day.

She goes to work. She chats with her co-workers. She counts down the minutes until lunch.

As she crosses the street, she notices a man in a car watching her. She holds her head a little higher, her shoulders a little straighter.

At the bank, she chats with the clerk. Another man catches her eye, and winks. Her favorite dress has worked its magic.

She walks through the mall, window shopping on her way to the food court. She feels tall, beautiful, confident.

At the last store, she notices a dress in the window and goes in to try it on.

She steps into the dressing room, and there, in the glare of the three way mirror, she sees what everyone else has seen.

Her beautiful, favorite dress is tucked into her panties.

Her huge, stretched out, granny panties.

PMS is a bitch.

*Don't worry, it didn't happen to ME. I left off names to protect the em-bare-ass-ed *

The Other Side of Addiction

Andrea Edwards — 2009-07-31T17:26:00Z

She was in my life for what felt like forever, but was, in the grand scheme of things, a brief moment.

Four years we spent doing things best friends do. I loved her. In truth, I love her still.

It's impossible to know if the person she showed me was who she thought I wanted to see, or if it was some semblance of the real her.

I like to think I knew her. That I didn't come to love a person she only pretended to be.

I trusted her with my feelings, my deepest thoughts, my children's lives. Apart from my husband and the midwife, she was the only other person in the room when my youngest child was born.

We shared. We laughed. We loved.

And then she was gone, in the blink of an eye.

She was an addict, her boyfriend said. Vicodin. He'd only just discovered it himself.

And she was gone.

He told me things then, things that hurt my heart and my head and my soul.

About the person I thought she was, how she really felt about me, about my kids.

I dream about her. I dream she comes back, and explains that he was just lashing out in anger. Maybe he was trying to make it easier for me to let her go. Maybe he was vindictively trying to burn her bridges for her. Maybe he was simply telling the truth.

I'll never know.

But still, I love her. The person I knew, and the parts she hid from me. I only wish she'd trusted me enough to let me see.

Maybe she could have left knowing I love her, anyway. That I love her enough to help her through it.

I wish I could tell her that.

Foul Air

Andrea Edwards — 2009-07-29T17:20:00Z

The elderly man to my left was staring out the plane's window as we backed away from the gate. His gnarled and spotted hands shook. Whether from anxiety or age, I'll never know; we never spoke.

The woman to my right spoke no English. Her eyes were closed and her lips moved as she silently worked through her rosary beads.

Squeezed between them on the airplane, I silently cursed Southwest Air for assigning me to board in group C. I'd had four hours of sleep the night before, and had hoped to make up for lost time as I flew across the country.

I'd chosen this seat, near the front, because I wanted to make a mad dash for my family the moment we arrived at the gate. What difference did it make who I sat between, when all that was available to me was center seats?

The elderly man was the first to let one rip. I heard it before I smelled it, but still he looked out the window, making no apologies for his social faux pas.

Not to be upstaged by some aged gringo, the woman to my right immediately responded with some foul air of her own. I swear I saw her grin as she prayed.

Claustrophobia set in, as I realized the only place to have a moments reprieve from my ~~prison~~ seat was the tiny, cramped bathroom shared by hundreds of passengers on the plane.

And so it continued, for four hours in the air. Never speaking, never discussing where they were from or what they could possibly have eaten to have caused such noxious fumes at 10,000 feet, they battled on either side of me.

A part of me wished for a drastic change in cabin pressure, so that I could breathe the pure, sweet oxygen that would flow from the mask in the ceiling.

Finally, we landed. I looked at the passengers I'd sat between, each in turn, and fully expected them to ask me who had won. Clearly, we all know who lost.

I jumped quickly from my seat, and ran to the loving arms of my family. Burying her face into my hair, Alison made a face and said, "Mommy, you stink."

I missed you too, baby. I missed you, too.

The Comfort Zone

Andrea Edwards — 2009-07-27T19:40:00Z

I spent this past weekend in Chicago attending the BlogHer Conference.

And while last year my post-BlogHer post was about stepping outside my comfort zone, I made an amazing discovery this year.

I didn't step outside my comfort zone the moment I arrived at the Chicago Sheraton, I stepped into it.

These are my people. My community. My cohorts. People who get it.

I've never had to remove my shoes to count the number of people I'm comfortable around. Or unclench one of my fists, if we're being realistic.

There in Chicago, I realized that the way I interact with my internet friends can easily translate to real life. I know not everyone "gets it", this blogging thing, and that's OK. I don't get the NASCAR craze, but I'm not knocking people who drive around with the number 3 on their bumper. Or is it the number 8?

I got to be myself for three whole days. I talked endlessly with people about their passions, their hopes, their writing styles, their kids or lack thereof. We talked about weight issues and depression and parenting. There was talk about what blogging adds to our lives, and how we try to find balance. But mostly, there was camaraderie.

And only a little bit of drama. But, in the eloquent words of my friend Fran, "In a group as large as blogher, there will always be flawed motives. Human nature. I choose to focus on the good."

And good it was. I learned so much. I came home with a renewed passion for writing, a few new tricks up my sleeve, a huge stack of business cards, and a happy heart.

Thanks to everyone who made it so very, very amazing.

*And if you're looking for a post with pictures of my crazy time? It's coming, baby, it's coming.*

And just to hold you over:

The Happy Scowl

Andrea Edwards — 2009-07-21T15:08:00Z

This weekend I spent a few hours in the pool with the kids while my husband, apparently, observed from the dining room.

After awhile he came outside to tell me he noticed I scowled a lot, even when laughing. "Maybe it's why you have a hard time getting to know people," he offered, in all his wise wisdom.

"Or maybe it's just really, really sunny out here and I'm squinting," I lovingly replied.

But it got me thinking. Do I scowl? It's not so much the putting people off I care about. It's the frown lines I'm sure to get between my eyes.

I'd hate to end up with a chasm like Kate Gosselin's. I've never watched their show, but as a reader of People magazine, I've been forced, in recent months, to become an expert on her appearance.

My expert opinion: the woman scowls, even when it's NOT sunny.

*
Dun- Dun- DUNNN!

To combat the impending chasm, I spent some time in front of the mirror perfecting a perma-grin where I smooth my forehead. It's kind of like when you used to wiggle your ears as a kid, only don't wiggle. Just hold.

The problem is, it makes me look kind of surprised and more than a little crazy.

I'll probably repel people more than ever, but at least I'll have a nice forehead.

*I have no idea where I got these photos. I googled, and got out of there as fast as I could.

Friends of Maddie

Andrea Edwards — 2009-07-20T04:31:00Z

Have you ever thought to yourself, "What could I do to be a better person"?

Maybe try a little harder to help those less fortunate?

Most of us have. Some of us haven't.

But regardless, there's a great way you can honor the memory of the lovely and incredibly missed Madeline Alice Spohr, and help the families of babies in the NICU.

Whose heart doesn't skip a beat when thinking about sweet little babies struggling for life? Or, at the very least, whose heart doesn't palpitate when thinking about wining a free Netbook from Intel?

Click on the link above, or go here and leave a comment. Oh, and don't forget to make a donation. It's not required, but dude. Karma is a bitch.

And so am I, if you win and I find out you couldn't spare a dime.

Who Are You, Anyway?

Andrea Edwards — 2009-07-14T16:05:00Z

I've noticed a lot of bloggers posting "about me" posts in preparation for BlogHer.

As much as we feel like we know each other by reading and commenting on blogs, tweeting and chatting, do we really know the basics? Do the basics even matter?

Either way, here's a little bit of background on me.  Skip it, if you couldn't care less. It's Ok, really, I'll just go cry in the corner.

My name is Andrea. It's pronounced ON-DRAY-UH, or ON-DREE-UH. I know you'll probably call me AAAN-DREE-UH when we meet. I'll correct you a couple of times, and offer up my nickname of Dre - DRAY. But after a few glasses of wine, I'll probably answer to "hey you" so, whatever.

When I'm nervous, I either don't say a word or I talk a lot. There's no in-between. Don't say I didn't warn you.

I'm a pack rat and a recovering perfectionist. Certain areas of my home have to be in order before I go to bed, or I can't sleep. Other areas are so messy, you can't find anything.

I drink white or pink wine. Go on, laugh.  Reds get me drunk fast and give me the worst hangovers, so you'll thank me later for abstaining. Trust me.

Unless I've got a migraine or had some Cuervo, I don't vomit.  I get the nausea, the watery mouth, but my body refuses to bring things up. It likes to send rancid meat and whatever else all the way through, like a slip n slide. FUN FACTS!

There has been a lot of drama in our lives. A LOT!  OF DRAMA! But thankfully, it mostly involves other people, which, unfortunately for you, means I don't write about it here.

I'm 31. I'm married to Jeremy, who just turned 36. We've been together for 11 years, married for 7. We're that sappy couple who really likes each other's company, but we try to keep the PDA to a minimum. Sometimes we forget. We have two daughters - Alison Lela, who is 5, and Blythe Josephine, who is 2.

We experienced secondary infertility. It sucked. There were a lot of uncomfortable procedures involved, for both of us, and there were more than a few insensitive doctors who could use a lesson or two in bedside manner. In the end, after giving birth to Blythe and hemorrhaging severely, we were told that if I got pregnant again it would probably kill me. So, again with the uncomfortable procedures, this time to seal up our baby-making abilities, forever.

I have a Bachelors Degree from CSU Sacramento, "Sac State". I majored in Child Development, minored in Business Administration. It took me 7 years, but hey! slow and steady wins the race. I graduated magna cum laude.  I mention it here only because I have no other use for the information.

Since I now raise our kids and manage the office of our plumbing business, I'm using all that edu-ma-cation every day. Now, if only I could remember what I learned.... hmmmm.

I'm also an ICEA certified Childbirth Educator, but other than helping laboring goats, pigs, dogs and cows, I don't get to use my skills very often.

We live in the second meth capital of California. I've lived here for 15 of the last 18 years. I joke about it, but I love it here. Not everyone does. I didn't, always. But it's our home, it's beautiful in its own way, and we wouldn't trade it for anything.

That's me, in a nut shell. Probably pistachio.

Any questions?

BlogHer Bound

Andrea Edwards — 2009-07-10T20:45:46Z

Two weeks from now, I'll be in Chicago.

That's 2049 miles away from my kids and my husband. Yes, exactly.

I've waited until today to "announce" that I'm going because, honestly? I thought I'd be hyperventilating and hiding in the closet right about now. I didn't think I'd end up going.

Don't get me wrong - I want to go.

I want to learn new things and network and take in the sights and blah, blah, blah. But mostly, I want to hang out with the people I hang out with through my computer on a daily basis.

Meghan and Heather & Mike and Christina and Kendra and Greis and Stacey and Kirsten and Kari and Maura and Megan and Marinka and Jessica and Insta-Mom and Fran can't forget the Room 704 girls, VDog and Dawn and Leslie and... and... and... a gazillion other people I'd love to meet but I don't know whether or not they're going.

But. That's far, far away from my babies. If something were to happen to one of them, it would take me an entire day to get back home.

Why not bring them and make use of BlogHer's daycare? Because, uhhh, I'm planning on having a glass or ~~twelve~~ two of wine with Meghan and Heather & Mike and Christina and Kendra and Greis and Stacey and Kirsten and Kari and Maura and Megan and Marinka and Jessica and Insta-Mom and Fran and VDog and Dawn and Leslie.

And, this may surprise you, but I'm a completely different person without my kids around. The Mom in me refuses to remove the stick from her ass unless the children are not around, and will not be around.

So, I'm going. Alone. I'll probably have to double up on my anti-anxiety meds while I'm gone, or maybe not with all that wine drinking, but I'm going and I'll have fun and learn a lot and hopefully come home with a huge stack of cards from new friends I can ~~stalk~~ follow.

You know, just in case my old Blog Buddies decide they don't like me without the stick.

Through the Looking-Glass

Andrea Edwards — 2009-07-09T03:41:00Z

Sweet Madeline, where did you go? You were just here.

Smiling, laughing, sharing your light with the world.

Did you lose your way, Maddie-Moo?

You stepped through the looking-glass, dear Madeline. Can you hear us? Can you see us?

We're waiting here for you, love.

Will you reach through the looking-glass, baby girl, just for a moment?

A simple touch, Madeline. It's not so much to ask.

Do you know how many people are peering through the looking-glass, Maddie?

Your eyes sparkle as brightly as ever, your smile still lights up the room.

How can you be so here, and yet so gone?

Do you feel our love through the looking-glass, Madeline? Do you know that we'll love you forever?

I hope so.

------

It's been three months since Maddie left this world. Her mom and dad share their memories, photos, videos and their grief with the world, so that the rest of us can catch a glimpse of Madeline through the looking-glass. I hope they know how much she is loved - how much they are loved.

*All photos are courtesy of Heather Spohr's flickr stream, used by permission*

Tired and Naked

Andrea Edwards — 2009-07-01T20:19:00Z

I'm exhausted. Why? Because my house is naked, and that entails a whole lot of work.

Blythe's new room is finally finished. And by finished I mean, it still needs one window sill, closet doors and only half of the electrical outlets are working. But hey, it's done enough for her to move over.

What? You can't see that very well? Sorry. I seem to have let my camera run out of battery, and I can't find the charger. So that's all you get. Crappy, blurry, blown up cell phone camera images.

Just squint. And have a few glasses of wine.

Now, isn't it beautiful? I knew you'd agree.

I cleaned out Blythe's old bedroom so that Alison could move in there.

So that we could strip down the wall between Alison's old bedroom and the living room.

(More squinting. A few more sips of wine)

We actually stripped the living room side before I ever even moved her. Because, have I ever mentioned that my husband is ~~cheap~~ frugal?

We needed the sheetrock over at that rental we're working on. So we took it down here, and put it up there. Already textured! And free!

Now that Alison has been moved, the living room is all the way naked.

See my vacuum? It is begging for mercy.

I hope it doesn't quit on me when it finds out that we've now started ripping out the other side...

Kiss and Say Goodbye

Andrea Edwards — 2009-06-27T06:01:00Z

I mentioned previously that my husband lost his Father at a very early age.

What I didn't tell you is that his father committed suicide.

One day, he just didn't feel like living anymore.

He and his wife, my husband's Mother, had split up and filed for divorce.

They talked about reconciling. But it didn't happen.

Two days before he died, he bought a single track record by the Manhattans, entitled, "Kiss and Say Goodbye". He listened to it over, and over, and over.

I have this record in my possession. I fondle it sometimes, and I wonder.

I wonder what life would be like if he'd pulled himself through. If he'd just gotten past that difficult time in his life and decided to stick around for the two little boys he left behind. I wonder what kind of man he would have grown into. I wonder what kind of Father he would have been.

I've never listened to the record, and neither has my husband. We just can't.

We can't. Because it's been so many years, and life.... well, life has to go on.

Here are the lyrics to that song. While I don't know the melody that accompanies them, they haunt me.

At the same time, I'm so glad he took a moment to say good-bye.

Manhattans - Kiss And Say Goodbye Lyrics
Album: Best Of-Kiss & Say Goodbye

This has got to be the saddest day of my life
I called you here today for a bit of bad news
I won't be able to see you anymore
Because of my obligations, and the ties that you have
We've been meeting here everyday
And since this is our last day together
I wanna hold you just one more time
When you turn and walk away, don't look back
I wanna remember you just like this
Let's just kiss and say goodbye

I had to meet you here today
There's just so many things to say
Please don't stop me 'til I'm through
This is something I hate to do
We've been meeting here so long
I guess what we've done, oh was wrong
Please darlin', don't you cry
Let's just kiss and say goodbye (Goodbye!)

Many months have passed us by
(I'm gonna miss you)
I'm gonna miss you, I can't lie
(I'm gonna miss you)
I've got ties, and so do you
I just think this is the thing to do
It's gonna hurt me, I can't lie
Maybe you'll meet, you'll meet another guy
Understand me, won't you try, try, try, try, try, try, try
Let's just kiss and say goodbye (Goodbye!)

Hmmmm
(I'm gonna miss you)
I'm gonna miss you, I can't lie
(I'm gonna miss you)
Understand me, won't you try
(I'm gonna miss you)
It's gonna hurt me, I can't lie
(I'm gonna miss you)
Take my handkerchief and wipe your eyes
(I'm gonna miss you)
Maybe you'll find, you'll find another guy
(I'm gonna miss you)
Let's kiss and say goodbye, pretty baby
(I'm gonna miss you)
Please, don't you cry
(I'm gonna miss you)
Understand me, won't you try
(I'm gonna miss you)
Let's just kiss and say goodbye

Good-bye, Wayne. Your son has grown into such a wonderful man. You would be proud.

Mid-Night Musings

Andrea Edwards — 2009-06-25T16:59:00Z

I spent a good portion of last night rocking a sleeping Blythe in my arms.

It's interesting, what will run through my mind in the middle of the night, while I'm half asleep and being snuggled by a warm kid.

We have two, two-pronged towel hooks hanging on the wall just outside of our shower. One is taller than the other, and maybe I should just go take a picture so you can see for yourself but I did just mention that I was up most of the night and I don't really feel like working that hard right now, so close your eyes and imagine two towel hooks on a wall.

Except, don't close your eyes, keep reading.

Anyway, when we moved in here, Jeremy claimed the taller hook and I claimed the shorter one. It makes sense - he's a full 7 inches taller than me.

Last night I was thinking about how those towel hooks are like our lives. Back then, our towels could stretch out and dry quickly, pursuing their own interests but still close enough to know exactly what was going on in the other towel's daily life. Close enough that my towel could let his towel know if it was starting to smell mildewy, let's say, and also close enough to snuggle when they were feeling ~~frisky~~ lonely.

These days, our towel hooks are pretty crowded. Blythe keeps a hooded bunny towel in there, Alison keeps a yellow ducky towel. Sometimes they want the bunny and the ducky to dry together, so my towel ends up all squished into the wall, and Jeremy's towel is too far away to let it know if it starts to get stinky.

Sometimes, when I get out of the shower to reach for my towel, I find that it has been knocked to the floor and is not only still damp, but is also covered in cat hair and pieces of hay. Then I have to run across the bathroom naked to get a fresh towel, and of course one of our employees always happens to be walking by the window at that very moment.

Other times, each of our hooks shares a spot with an animal towel, but ours are always pressed to the outside, the bunny and ducky tucked in between. Our towels can shout to each other across the divide, but no doubt the moment they begin to speak, the duck will start quacking and the bunny will start hopping.

A few weeks ago, my hook just fell right off the wall. Maybe its load was too heavy? Who knows. It was quite inconvenient. All four of our towels cannot fit on Jeremy's towel hook. So we had to outsource. One went to the hanging bar across the bathroom, another went on the bar on the outside of the shower door.

But it was sad, seeing all of our towels so far apart. They're like a family, those towels.

So Jeremy fixed it, and I lovingly arranged the towels, just so.

It's OK that my towel doesn't always get dry.

It's OK that sometimes, my hook holds the majority of the household towels.

It's OK that the ducky and the bunny can be pushy, loud, and obnoxious at times.

Because, when it's the middle of the night and your baby girl is asleep against you, those towels remind you that your family is together and happy.

Even if we do occasionally smell like mildew.

Wordless Wednesday: The Mehhh Edition

Andrea Edwards — 2009-06-24T23:32:50Z

                               Welcome to "WTF, it's Already Wednesday??"


                                        Blythe and her Boer Goat, Auggie

Funny, I Don't FEEL Cleaner

Andrea Edwards — 2009-06-22T18:32:00Z

Hi, my name is Andrea and I am an addict.

A sugar addict. I loves me some sugar.

In the past few months, I've been consuming more sugar than could possibly be healthy. So, 8 days ago I started a 10-day sugar cleanse/fat-burning diet.

I gave up sugar, carbs other than a piece of fruit every 3 days, and alcohol. And since the Starbucks Vanilla Frappuccino is the only coffee I like, I gave up coffee, too. Go ahead, call me crazy.

The first few days were painful, I won't lie. The withdrawals were heinous. I was cranky, tired, and irritable.

And cranky. And tired. And irritable some more.

I ate more vegetables in a 7 day period than I had in the 6 prior months. And, people? I eat a lot of vegetables. I also ate over two pounds of heavenly sugar-free, lower-sodium bacon. Mmm, bacon.

I made it through a birthday party and an all-day anniversary party. Cake smells delicious, do you know that? And its scent can waft all the way across a yard and into the waiting nostrils of a person on day 6 of a 10-day sugar cleanse/fat-burning diet.

And when faced with all the deliciousness that is home-made potato salad, macaroni salad, and freshly baked rolls as far as the eye can see, a determined person can eat a plain garden salad with some cut up tri-tip sprinkled on top.

As long as that person has brought along a gallon of their own special iced tea, sweetened with Truvia, which, in case you didn't know, is God's gift to a person on a 10-day sugar cleanse/fat-burning diet who can't have artificial sweeteners because they make her grow cysts in her mouth. And possibly other places, but let's not try it out to see where they'd grow next.

On day 7, (that's 168 hours without sugar, in case you were counting) along came Father's Day. We had my parents over for dinner and they brought over a loaf of garlic bread. I poured them some wine. I may have whimpered. And then my husband asked me to stop the damn diet and have some real food.

So I did. I had half a loaf of garlic bread and 4 glasses of wine. Today, I drank a pepsi. But other than that? I haven't splurged. Haven't craved sugar, sugar, sugar all the live long day like I did before.

I may have only made it through 7 days, but I'm pretty sure I licked my sugar habit.

It tastes like... bacon.

Once a Father, Always a Father

Andrea Edwards — 2009-06-21T04:53:00Z

In honor of Father's Day, President Obama made his feelings known about what it means, to him, to be a dad. He made a point that fatherhood extends far past conception, and is wrapped up in the way a dad raises his children.

I've known some wonderful fathers throughout the course of my life. I appreciate my own Dad more and more every day, especially now that I am a parent myself. My husband, the father of my children, is an amazing Dad. He lost his own father at a very young age, and had three wonderful men step up to the plate to fill that role. Without those men in his life, he wouldn't be the person he is today.

There is one father whose dedication to his daughter has always amazed and inspired me. Today, Mike Spohr spends his first Father's Day without his beloved Madeline, on whom he showered countless kisses and an immeasurable amount love and care.

The ladies of Room 704 (Dawn, V, and Leslie) created a lovely tribute to Mike, and many of us are posting it in his honor today. And Mike? Please remember, once you're a father - you are always a father.

Much love to all of you fathers out there - today is your day!

--------

Serenity Now Sunday -For Mike, For Father's Day

Sometimes, the best we can do is share a person's experience and let them know we have their back. That while we may not how they feel, we recognize that there are days that are just going to suck beyond the telling of it. So today we celebrate firsts. Just a very few of Maddie's firsts from the Spohr family flickr photostream:

First time being held by daddy

First time being held by mommy

Chillin' after the first bath

First Christmas

First Sunshine, First Car Ride

First nap, when a totally embarrassing picture of Mike was taken

First Baseball Game

We celebrate all the joyous firsts with you,
and stand guard over you for all the firsts to come.

The Women of Room 704.

Sitting, But Not Actually Sitting

Andrea Edwards — 2009-06-19T17:32:00Z

Because there just really wasn't enough poop in my life, I agreed to dog-sit two adorable puppies for a friend who is between houses at the moment.

Having never spent time around American Bulldogs before, I didn't really know what to expect. I've been pleasantly surprised to find that both of them, although they are 6 months apart, are sweet, affectionate, fast learners.

You caught a glimpse of little Samantha, but that doesn't really do her justice.

And, you haven't yet met Meatball, so let me introduce you.

Did I mention that he's an enormous puppy? So ginormous is he, that I'm not sure the term "puppy" really applies. He's nearly as tall as Cage, our 8 year old chubby Labrador, and, while I haven't measured his chest or head, I believe he's at least twice as wide.

Meatball eats a lot. Which makes him the poopin'est dog in the universe. If Meatball lived on Old MacDonald's Farm, the song would go "Here a poop, there a poop, everywhere a poop, poop."

And the drool is interesting, as well. I tend to walk around with smears of dried spit across my lap and behind my knees. Sometimes there's food caked to it, too, because, did I mention he eats a lot?

Really, they have been a joy to have around. So gentle with the kids and a ton of fun. I'm not sure how long they'll be staying, but we're soaking them up while they're here.

Even Cage! Shocking, I know.

Blog Mojo

Andrea Edwards — 2009-06-18T04:39:00Z

          LOST: My Blog Mojo

Please return, no questions asked.

                *REWARD*

I feel like I've lost a bit of my blogging mojo.

There is so much going on in our lives at the moment, and it takes up every second of my time, every ounce of my energy, every millimeter of my brain.

I want to share my thoughts and inspiration here. I want to pour out my feelings and laugh about the crazy things that go on around me. I want to spend time pecking out the ideas that come to me in the middle of the night.

But where is the time?

It will come.  Soon, there will be time for more than pictures and brief descriptions of my life.

In the meantime, please forgive me for my lack of mojo.

Wordless Wednesday: The Awwww Edition

Andrea Edwards — 2009-06-17T14:33:00Z

Blythe and her (borrowed) puppy

Future Mothers-in-Law

Andrea Edwards — 2009-06-14T21:13:12Z

On Friday, Meghan of A Mom Two Boys, All Mediocre, Hot Mom Reviews and Eat Drink and Blog brought the famed "two boys" and her mom to the ranch for a much anticipated visit. Also? Any more websites and Meghan's going to be held personally responsible for my development of carpal tunnel syndrome.

Meghan and I have been quietly planning Alison and Dylan's future wedding for some time now, so we were anxious to see how they would get along. Because, obviously, it would throw a wrench in our plans if they wound up hating each other.

Fortunately, it's easy to have a good time when there are animals to see, fish to catch, and new toys to play with. Blythe and Zach played well together, too, and even share an affinity for rubber boots and injuring themselves.

Jeremy must have caught wind of our plans, though, because he took them for a boat ride and made sure to keep boys and girls separate, at all times. Way to kill the mood, Dad!

All too soon it was time for our friends to go, and I tried to capture the photo we'll someday show at the wedding.

Dylan's already thinking of ways to propose, I can tell. His mom can help him with that.

Instant Entertainment

Andrea Edwards — 2009-06-11T06:15:00Z

Our satellite receiver went out a couple of weeks ago. At the time, we were worried about what the hell we were going to do for three whole days without TV, while we waited for the new one to arrive.

Oddly, we didn't really miss it all that much. Something about the sun shining, birds singing, blah blah blah.

The new one arrived a week and a half ago, and it sat there in the box, unopened, until this morning when we finally had a few spare ~~hours~~ minutes to read the directions and untangle a zillion cords.

It's funny what a couple of weeks without television will do to you - and to your kids, for that matter.

I give you:

Bubble Wrap, Instant Entertainment for the Whole Family. Reality TV at its finest.

(Bubble Wrap from Andrea Edwards on Vimeo.)

We've spent more time enjoying the bubble wrap than the new receiver. I wonder how long that will last?

Wordless Wednesday, The Fat Cat Edition

Andrea Edwards — 2009-06-10T06:08:00Z

Meet Simon. The oldest cat on the ranch. He's fat. And spoiled. And sweet.

Little Lady

Andrea Edwards — 2009-06-06T03:27:00Z

I'm the parent of a First Grader. A very, very proud First Grader.

Alison has grown so much since the first day of Kindergarten.

She's made new friends,

and grown closer to her BFF.

She reads, she loves math, she creates, thanks to the encouragement of an amazing teacher.

Suddenly, as if some sort of "independence" switch was turned on inside of her, there is a Little Lady standing where a Little Girl stood, just a short time ago.

Since the last day of Kindergarten (which was Friday, by the way):

She let me take a nap, while she read a book to herself.

She got her own snack when she was hungry.

She dressed herself, every day.

She did her own hair.

She cleaned her own room.

She remembered to feed and water her chicks, all on her own.

She let me take a shower, do some work, and clean up around the house while her sister napped.

She has used her manners, without fail.

She has been incredibly considerate of her sister's feelings and personal space.

Suddenly, I see the young woman she will one day become.

She is beautiful beyond comprehension.

Tag - I'm It

Andrea Edwards — 2009-06-03T20:06:00Z

Kendra over at The Adventures of the Headless Family tagged me for a meme. Thank goodness she did, because I'm still struggling to recover from a weekend of drunkenness with my cousins, and my brain doesn't bounce back as quickly as it used to.

The rules:
1) Go to your photo files
2) Pick the sixth folder (open)
3) Pick the 6th photo
4) Write a story about the photo
5) Tag six people

Although, had Kendra known what I'd end up having to post, she probably would have skipped over my name and chosen to tag someone else.

------

On the way up to Tahoe, after miles and miles of winding roads and no rest stops, there is a Shell gas station. There is always a line for the bathroom, and if you can't figure out why, you should probably go back and read that last sentence again.

While you wait your turn, you can do your little pee-pee dance while perusing the various statues they have for sale.

Behold:

This is what is at eye level, right outside the bathroom. I don't know, do you think it helps people do their business faster?

And don't worry, I DID NOT TOUCH. How would I have explained that purchase to Jeremy?

Who will I tag? Hmmmm.

Kellee, of The (not so) Small Things
Neena, of MamaNeena.
Meghan, of A Mom, Two Boys and All Mediocre
Sophie, of Our Life, Inzaburbs
Susan, of Sassafrassery
Maura, of One Ping Only

If I didn't tag you and you'd like to play, let me know so I can see what you came up with!

The Little Guy

Andrea Edwards — 2009-05-27T19:10:00Z

I was sitting on the edge of our lawn, watching the kids play.

It was a gorgeous day. The sun was leaning to the West, playing peek-a-boo through the trees. All the Big things in life seemed, for a moment, to be at peace.

The toe of my shoe kicked a rock in our gravel driveway, and suddenly I caught my breath.

Our driveway is at least a mile long - it is made up of millions of rocks, none of which I've ever taken time to consider as an individual. Those rocks serve a purpose for me, but only if they are together, laid evenly over dirt.

Under the lone rock was a tiny bug. Minuscule, really. Had I not taken a moment to focus my eyes, I would never have seen it. My toe, so small in the grand scheme of things, moved an entire mountain, from the bug's perspective.

It got me thinking about how, sometimes in the hustle and bustle of daily life, I don't take time to truly focus on the people I interact with. If I paid a little more attention, maybe I would notice the little things going on in their lives, the things that may seem like the smallest of pebbles to me, but are, in fact, gigantic mountains to them.

How hard it is to move a mountain when it is looming above. How easy it is to kick a pebble with the toe of my shoe.

Today, I saw a disheveled man sitting on the curb outside of a convenience store. Despite the heat, he wore a heavy coat and next to him sat a frayed duffel bag filled to the brim. I can only assume that everything he owned was sitting there with him. He was staring at the ground, looking forlorn.

I walked over to him and handed him my lunch, with a five dollar bill tucked inside.

I moved his mountain.

Land of the Free

Andrea Edwards — 2009-05-26T17:52:00Z

Today, here in the self-proclaimed Land of the Free, California's Supreme Court upheld Proposition 8, a ban on same-sex marriage that barely passed into law on November 4, 2008. I am so incredibly sad - my words die on my lips. So I am re-publishing the post I wrote on November 5th.

---------

Excuse Me While I Rant

Disclaimer: As I write this I am angry, disappointed and confused. I am struggling to make sense of my emotions. Nothing I say is meant to offend or condemn anyone else.

In the wake of the great change that awaits this nation upon the election of Barack Obama, I am left feeling happy for the nation, and sad for my great state of California.

As I type this, Proposition 8 has a 52% affirmative vote. We wait for the final 4.6% of our votes to be counted, but the chances of it failing are slim at this point. In light of the 20% gap between the yes and no votes on Proposition 22 back in March of 2000, I am happy to see that we have covered so much ground in the last 8 1/2 years.

But, as a Christian, I am left with doubts about my religion. About the bible I have read and loved. For the first time in my life, I am ashamed to say I am a Christian.

We are taught to use our bible and our faith as a moral compass through the forest of life. But as I walk, how can I ignore the signs around me, telling me that I am no longer heading North? The compass tells me I am walking the path of righteousness, and yet. The sun and the stars, the moss on the trees, my very own heart, mind and gut tell me the compass is wrong.

How can I continue to support a religion that preaches to love thy neighbor, judge not, and accept free will, and in the very same breath works hard to oppress people they don't even know, in the name of God? Regardless of what the bible says about homosexuality, this is NOT the Christian United States of America, and people have FREE WILL for a reason. Just as I am FREE to be a Christian, so should other people be FREE of the shackles of my beliefs. How does one person's choice to love and marry another effect my life, my marriage, my religious beliefs?

I was one of those kids in history class who just knew she would have been one of the brave people to stand up for civil rights in the 1950's, regardless of how her family, neighbors or church felt. Heather's brother Kyle pointed out that most of us probably felt that way.

There are places in this country where they still believe people of color are less than. They quote bible scriptures that affirm their beliefs in their minds. I have heard it with my own ears, seen it with my own eyes. These past few weeks I have heard and seen bible verses thrown at other people as a weapon - people who are just trying to live their lives in the best way that they can, just like everyone else - and tell them that they will take away their rights based on those scriptures.

I am appalled. I am sad. I am terribly, terribly confused. I stand at a great precipice in the course of my life, and I must choose my compass wisely.

Dust and Dirt

Andrea Edwards — 2009-05-22T20:19:00Z

As I mentioned before, Jeremy and I love projects.

You also may have noticed that I'm a bit anal retentive and a semi-compulsive hand washer. Pardon me for not linking to previous posts to prove my point, that would take me all freaking day. (Also? Try saying that 5 times, fast).

It's interesting how all of those fun personal facts about my life come together, seeing as the projects we take on almost always involve a lot of dirt, dust, insects, and the occasional petrified rat carcass.

Jessica of Bern This asked if I could share some pictures of projects we've taken on and Oh!Boy! are you all in for a treat! Just remember, you have Jessica to ~~blame~~ thank for what follows in the coming weeks.

I'll start with the projects we're currently working on. Wheee!

Last summer we laid a foundation for a 585 square foot addition to our house.

At the time we thought it was a quick, 6 month long project but... not so much. We toiled away on it here and there, slowly getting things done while life and work and ranch animals and everything else under the sun got in the way.

Just this week we moved into the "final" phase of construction, with the second coat of stucco on the exterior...

<--- front

<--- back

and drywall hung in the interior.

You can't tell, but I took this picture while standing in a huge gaping hole in the wall of my existing house.

<---- dust!

I said good-bye to my special little nook, but, eh, small price to pay.

In the next few weeks we'll get the addition textured and painted, and install the flooring. Then we'll move Blythe into her new bedroom, and move Alison into Blythe's old bedroom so we can demo the rest of the wall and finish making our house whole again.

We hope to be done by Christmas. HA!

In the meantime, I will try not to go crazy from all of the dust being tracked through my home.

Also, as if this post were not already long and boring enough, I'd love to show you the interior of the ~~crack house~~ rental I posted about last week. You all didn't think we'd manage to clean that place up, did you?

Behold, the talent of my husband:

No more rotting floor! No more falling down walls and ceiling! We've still got a long way to go, but if we spend a few more date nights working on it, we'll get it done.

As long as I've got an ample supply of soap. And alcohol!

Project Allergy Cure: Take One

Andrea Edwards — 2009-05-20T21:32:00Z

Yesterday Blythe and I had our first treatments with a homeopathic remedy called the BAX3000 by BioAllergenix, in an attempt to cure her of her food allergies.

Our appointment went well, although Blythe did cry. Afterward, she rewarded (read: punished) the doctor for putting her through sitting still for two whole minutes by terrorizing the decorations in his office. And yes, that included the goldfish.

This particular treatment was for egg, a known allergen for Blythe. The doctor recommended that we feed Blythe an egg for lunch today, and although I was freaking terrified, I did.

I kept the EpiPen handy because, hello! Terrified! But excited as well.

So, without further ado, I give you: Blythe's first egg!

Me: Blythe! Mama made you an egg!

Blythe: Oooh! Baby chicks!

Me: No, no, not baby chicks. An egg to eat.

*

Blythe: (sniiiffffff) Egg?

Me: Want a bite?

Blythe: Baby chicks?

*

Me: Not chicks, eggs! It's good! Yummy eggs!

*

Me: Come on, open up! Don't you know you've been deprived?

Blythe: I do it!

*

Blythe: Here, Mama eat it.

*

Me: Ok, I'll have a bite. Mmm! Yummy eggs! Now Blythe eat it!

*

Blythe: Mmmmmm!

Me: Now, any tingling? Swelling? How's your tongue? Let me examine you for a rash. Let me listen to your breathing. Sit here on the couch so I can stare at you. Want to watch a movie?

Blythe: Movie!

*

Verdict: It's been several hours, and she has not had a reaction as far as I can tell. I'll keep watching her for symptoms, but WOW!

I mean, WOW! My kid just ate EGGS!

*She's nekkid because I wanted to be able to spot a rash immediately, not because we're refusing to run the air conditioner in an attempt to save money. Mostly.

Happy Number Two, Number Two!

Andrea Edwards — 2009-05-18T18:01:00Z

It's somebody's birthday!

So this mama's spending the day playing with her girl.

We've come a long way, baby!

I think they call this "Hope"

Andrea Edwards — 2009-05-14T19:58:00Z

I want to shout from the rooftops that we may have found a CURE for Blythe's food allergies.

But I'm afraid to, because what if it doesn't work? What if it's just some quack peddling pipe dreams?

But what if it isn't a hoax? What if it works and my girl can live a normal life? What if we can take her somewhere and not worry that she'll be exposed to something that will make her miserable for days, or worse, force us to use her EpiPen?

What if, as the doctor promises, she'll be able to start eating normal foods as soon as 24 hours after each treatment?

I close my eyes and picture what it will be like to watch her face the first time she tries

ice cream!
cake!
french fries!
bread!
scrambled eggs!
chips!
candy!

Or even the simple things, like

noodles with SAUCE!
REAL pizza instead of the stuff I make at home with rice crust and faux cheese
REAL pancakes, not the gluten free stuff that is flat and gooey
Peanut butter!
A peanut butter and jelly sandwich!
GRILLED CHEESE!
corn on the cob!

or the first time we take her to a birthday party and let her

eat what the other kids are eating!
keep what she finds out of the pinata!
choose something off the buffet!

Oh my goodness, just thinking about it is overwhelming.

Yesterday, I attended a class with a local doctor who recently began using a machine called the BAX3000, made by BioAllergenix. It's a newfangled homeopathic treatment that uses frequencies delivered by laser to retrain the nervous system to stop attacking harmless substances.

It sounds hokey. It sounds too good to be true. It sounds.... worth a try.

As one of the doctor's first patients, I promised to give our testimonial and spread the good word if this treatment works. In exchange, the doctor is giving us a two-for-one special so that I'll be treated right along with Blythe. I'm relieved to be receiving treatment as well, so that I will know first hand how it feels, whether my allergy symptoms are abated, and more importantly, whether it's safe to expose Blythe.

We'll be undergoing 30 treatments over the next 6 weeks, and I will document them here.

I'm afraid to get my hopes up.... but honestly? Hope feels really freaking good.

Slumlords

Andrea Edwards — 2009-05-12T20:08:00Z

Jeremy and I like projects. We actually fell in love while remodeling a condemned crack house, eleven years ago.

Who says romance is dead?

This year, we bought three foreclosed properties and have been working on them in our "spare time", where "spare time" = who the hell has spare time? It's more like we work on them when we're supposed to be sleeping, or having a "date night", where "date night" = working on condemned crack houses is romantic!

Two of them are now tenant occupied, thanks to my hard working husband, and the third is now in the line of fire. Guess what? There's a reason we saved it for last.

I now present to you, our newest ~~crack house~~ project:

See the floor? Let's take a closer look, shall we?

That would appear to be a hole. In the kitchen floor. Yes, hmmmm. It seems they built the floor right on the DIRT, and now it's completely rotten, giving off a lovely damp, earthy smell.

Know what else we've discovered? They put some walls up to create new rooms but forgot to nail the walls to anything. So they were just held on with some tape and paint at the joint between the walls and the ceiling.

Yes, people, we do love our projects. We're the proudest slumlords you'll ever meet.

Even

Andrea Edwards — 2009-05-09T16:45:00Z

This delightful piece of writing hangs in my mother's dining room. It hangs from a red and white lanyard, and adorns a hand-made gift from my sister several years ago.

I read it often, and it has become one of my favorites.

The Lanyard - Billy Collins

The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,

and I gave her a lanyard.

She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,

and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.

Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.

And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,

and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.

And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,

I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough

to make us even.

-----------

Friday, when I picked Alison up from school, she proudly handed me a Mother's Day card she'd made in class, along with a plastic cup filled with dirt. Protruding from the dirt was an inch-tall green stalk, a small plant she'd grown herself from a seed.

It doesn't matter that her sister yanked the tiny plant from the dirt less than 24 hours later.

It doesn't matter that Alison still sassed me and stayed up later than I intended.

Because while I know her efforts don't make us even, I'm going to pretend, just for a little while,

that we are.

Happy Mother's Day!

Answers

Andrea Edwards — 2009-05-06T04:22:00Z

I've been feeling sluggish lately. And by "lately" I mean for the past two years.

What? "Lately" is a relative term.

So I went to my doctor last week and poured my heart out. It took a lot of courage for me to do that - to ask for help. The fact that I not only called to make the appointment but actually showed up for it is testament to the fact that I have been feeling especially horrid for the past few weeks.

After calming me down, my doctor took a brief medical history, including asking for details about Blythe's birth, which seemed, in my mind, to be the catalyst for my downward spiral.

It didn't take long for him to make an educated guess on my problem: a fairly rare condition called Sheehan's Syndrome.

All the pieces fit, the biggest one being that I hemorrhaged after giving birth. I continued to bleed internally for two weeks, until I gave birth to the softball sized clot keeping all that inside my uterus, (a fun mental picture, no?) and then hemorrhaged again in the operating room, losing an entire liter of blood in one go. So, blood loss after pregnancy? That's a big fat CHECK.*

All the rest of it - the moodiness, the lethargy, the difficulty breast feeding, the feeling cold all the damn time, the depression, the anxiety, the "female issues", the low metabolism, it all fits, too.

They've drawn my blood to test the levels of my hormones to see how badly my pituitary gland was damaged by lack of oxygen during the blood loss. From there, I'll start on hormone replacements and see if we can put Humpty Dumpty back together again.

In the meantime, I've been taking an anti-anxiety/anti-depressant (Lexapro, 10mg) for a week now. While the side effects were a bit daunting to begin with, I think I'm starting to adjust, and beginning to see more and more of my old self - my real self - shining through. It's so nice to see her. I was beginning to think she was lost forever.

The amount of relief I felt when my doctor told me there was most likely a physiological reason for the way I've been feeling far outweighed the bad news that I'd have to be on hormone replacements, possibly for the rest of my life. Here I was, feeling guilty for my depression for two full years, and there was a perfectly logical explanation for it all.

But, as the days have passed, I've begun to wonder how I'll feel if my blood tests come back 'normal'. Will I still feel as good as I've begun to feel, or will the guilt start creeping back in?

For two years, I've been angry at myself for feeling resentful of the chaos that is my life, all the while knowing I'm grateful for everything I have. I don't want to feel that way anymore. I want to forgive myself for feeling like life is just effing hard sometimes, regardless of whether my pituitary gland is broken or whole.

So, I wait. Another week, and I'll know for sure. I hope I won't care about the answer.

* Go here and here if you'd like to read more about that crazy experience.

One Task

Andrea Edwards — 2009-05-03T16:44:00Z

My wonderful husband took Blythe out to play for awhile this morning and I took the opportunity to do some serious cleaning around the house.

For my first task, I chose to vacuum the living room rug. Not such a huge job, but it never fails to make the whole room look better.

I headed back to the mud room to get the vacuum, and when I opened the door I was greeted by Cage the Dog and an overwhelming stench of pee. I figured he'd have an accident eventually - he refuses to go outside to pee in the rain, and his bladder is only so big.

I went to grab a towel to wipe his feet and clean up the mess, but while I was gone, he made a run for it, tracking pee through the house on his way to the living room. I chased him down to wipe his feet, and then back-tracked, wiping up paw-print pee puddles as I went.

I dropped the towel onto the puddle on the mudroom floor, and noticed that his dog bed was soaking wet, too. Nice.

I shoved his bed into the washer, and then ran out to the living room to get Cage settled in there. It was then that I noticed the ashes all over his blanket from the fire we made last night. So, I shook off the ashes and swept them up.

While I was shaking out the blanket, I saw that one of the kids had put dry cereal in all the little divots the buttons make in the living room chair, and picked them out, sweeping up any that fell.

Then, I had Cage lay down so I could soak his injured foot in betadine, because I don't care what they say about pee being sterile, I'm not taking any chances. I wrapped a paper towel around his foot and went to get the vacuum from the mud room.

Oy, but the floor in there was still disgusting, so I finished cleaning up the pee, tossed the pee-soaked towel in the washer with the dog bed, and mopped really quick.

I finally set about vacuuming, and wouldn't you know - the vacuum freaked Cage out, and he ran across the WHITE living room rug with his gooshy, betadine-soaked foot.

I got him back on the blanket and finished vacuuming, keeping my evil-eye focused on him the entire time, and then cleaned up the rust-colored paw prints as best I could with some Resolve.

Feeling a bit exhausted after all that cleaning, I got myself a drink and decided to check in on twitter for a few minutes.

It's then that my husband walked in, having given me a full hour to clean the house. I'm on twitter, and all I've done is vacuum the living room rug. Sweeeeet.

No wonder he thinks I spend all my time on the computer!

Different

Andrea Edwards — 2009-04-28T17:32:00Z

Last night I was on Google Chat with Meghan, and we started talking about Alison, my 5 year old.

me: She's what they call "gifted" but I'm trying to come up with a better name for it than that
I've got a post in my drafts about it, but haven't had the balls to publish
Meghan: If I can publish my post, you can publish yours
HEH
me: GAH, don't go THERE

So, just to prove to Meghan that I'm not a huge coward, here it is.

--------

Alison is different.

No, it's OK. I know she is. It doesn't offend me when people notice.

For the first few years of Alison's life, I had nothing to compare her to. Not really, not in a way that was concrete. It was when she started preschool at age three that her difference became glaringly obvious.

"She's so... different from the other kids," the moms would say. They'd look from her to their own child (or children) and ask at what age she started doing this or that.

I became the queen of vague answers. They probably thought I had some sort of memory loss.

But the truth is, she's not 'normal'. She's 'gifted'. In her therapist's words, "she reeks of giftedness".

I cringe at the use of that word. Gifted. It is my belief that we all have gifts and talents to offer the world. So the fact that her brain works differently than the 'normal' brain, well... it's different. But is it gifted? I struggle to find a more appropriate term.

If the 'normal' brain is a forest, a 'gifted' child's brain is a jungle. You can't turn a forest into a jungle, or a jungle into a forest. They are two completely different environments made up of the same key elements. One isn't necessarily better than the other, they're just different. People don't go to Yellowstone National Forest and then complain that it isn't a jungle.

So why do many other parents feel threatened by my daughter? She's just a child, and she's not trying to compete - she's just being herself.

-Yes, my 5 year old reads at a 2nd grade level. She is capable of solving fairly complex mathematical equations. But she won't wipe her own butt.

-She can grasp abstract concepts such as atoms and molecules, but she is too timid to go to a birthday party if there is even one person she doesn't know in attendance.

-If we are having a problem with the wind blowing the door open, she will invent a door-closing mechanism in less than 2 minutes.



    But she refuses to dress herself.

In other words, she is different, but she can still be a pain in the ass. There are areas where other children are superior to her.

How do I relate all of that to another parent when she (or he, let's be fair) feels that Alison's 'gift' makes their child inferior? Here's one of the myths about giftedness that I want to print out and keep in my pocket:

Giftedness is something to be jealous about:

This is perhaps the most damaging myth. More often than not, gifted children can feel isolated and misunderstood. They have more adult tastes in music, clothing, reading material and food. These differences to other children can cause them to be shunned and even abused verbally or physically by other children.

Alison feels so alone. She already knows she's different. The kids don't yet hold it against her, but she knows. She knows.

I've only told a handful of people about Alison's 'giftedness' because I learned very early on that it is one of the surest ways to ruin a budding friendship - for myself as well as for my daughter. It's the main reason I've never written about it here, on my blog. Please know, I'm not bragging. Far from it. I know 'gifted' sounds like a blessing, but in so many ways, it's also a curse. And also? Try parenting a child with a higher IQ than your own.

I had originally decided that I wouldn't even tell Alison until she was in High School, and maybe not even then. College, perhaps? On her 30th birthday? She already feels different - would it help or hurt her to confirm that she actually is? It's something I struggle with all the time.

Especially because, God help us, people are starting to make comments about Blythe being 'different', too. At least they can be different together.