A tiny, little change

Since I'm not working, I thought, "Heck, maybe I should try to write more," and with that I'm moving my blog to WordPress.  The new platform will enable me to do more (well, that's Matt's promise, and I'm not sure what that means, and I'm not at all technical, so....yeah).   It's still a work in progress but if using the URL www.thegutsygirl.blogspot.com please point your browser to simply www.thegutsygirl.com going forward.

As always, it's a marvel and a gift that anyone reads this little blog, and for that I'm very appreciative - thank you.

18 Months

"My precious...."

Me: "What the heck is going on here?!" (upon reviewing the photos I took at the pool that day)
Matt: "She was pulling my chest hairs."

Photos were taken last week at French Creek State Park.  After many years of successfully avoiding the sun, I got a burn so bad it hurt for days to put on a bra or lie down.  Annie - who has developed a fear of baths - took to the water after about ten tentative minutes.  

OK - so this stay-at-home mom thing?  It isn't so bad.  I'm loving (while simultaneously being exasperated at) this age - 18 months - and taking such delight in your little burgeoning personality.  You are clever, mischievous, still willful as ever, and loving life.  You actually "oooo" at things.  Like, I picked up your father a new bath sponge (the boy uses sea sponges in the shower, what can I do) and when I pulled it out of the bag you literally oooed and awwed over the thing.  I mean, it's a damn loofah.

You get so excited over things: "Do you want to go outside?!" I say, emphasizing "outside" and you perk up and go to the door and start doing your toddler version of the "running man", stepping in place and banging on the door.  You're like a dog, in that way (I mean that really nicely...you know I love dogs.)

I've been struggling to find meaningful work that makes sense outside of the home, but am finding comfort in caring for you, although I've had a couple breakdowns this past week: your father has always been your fun favorite (I'm more behind the scenes at times - packing your diaper bag, readying lunch, making appointments while he is on the floor with you and your puzzles) and I accept that - and honestly didn't mind it one bit - until "Dat-tee" became the end all, be all.  He would leave the room and you'd break down.  Or you'd rush past me to find your father.  A few weeks ago I thought I had finally crimped his style - you were saying "Mama" much more than Daddy, but after some "Daddy lessons" (I seriously heard your father practicing the word Daddy with you as he put you to bed several days straight) I was back to square one.  It's a give and take - he's very hands-on and honestly, if you're going to chirp away to "Daddy, Daddy!" at least I get to lay on the couch with my Oreos when he corrals you.  And your father assures me you'll soon see how dorky he really is, so of course I find solace (and agreement) in that.

Also, you have discovered the word "No" (it's second only to "Daddy").  Like any toddler, you can be belligerent and stubborn and you are saying "no" to everything.  At the library today I told you to stop taking books off the shelves, and you yelled "NO!" and took five more off and ran off to the train table, where I swear you were trying to look strong and nonchalant but were spying on me and trying to gauge what my reaction was (by the fifth or so "NO!" we packed up and it was time to go, and by the way, my reaction was pissed off).  Another mom, who had a 22-month-old in tow, said from experience your next word will probably be "mine".  I told her you're already on the cusp of that because the other week you took sprinkles from our baking supplies, starting shaking them on the dog, and when asked to give them back, said, "No, no, mine, mine!"  Then you ran into the living room to sprinkle the carpet.  It was one of the longest, most coherent thoughts you've had to date so I let it go.

You never really watched TV before, but I have been using it as a crutch so I don't lose my mind, and you've developed a love for Elmo.  You love Elmo and shout his name and bounce on your little butt when he comes on-screen.  What's with kids and Elmo?

You're finally sitting with us nightly when we read with you and your two current favorites are "Goodnight Moon" and "I'll Teach My Dog 100 Words", although the simple baby touch-and-feel "Farm" you still have a soft spot for.  Whenever you spot a duck you screech, "Duck, duck, duck!" (as in "quack, quack, quack").

And last but not least, I'm going to try to start potty-training you.  Or at least getting you accustomed to the little toilet we bought you so we can have a leg-up when your little brother/sister makes their appearance in October.  Today at the library we picked up some "I love the potty!" books and today I sat you on it and you looked rather amused.  Almost regal sitting high on your throne.  Maybe it was because - I swear - about a minute after you got off (and I was running to get a diaper for you) you pooped on the floor about three feet from the thing.  Then you stepped in it.  Then you started wailing.  Your father thinks this is the sign of a genius (sans the stepping in it part), but unfortunately you've had some stomach issues the last few days so I think it was purely coincidence.  

You are really giving us a run for our money, kid, and we're just trying to keep up (and last until your bedtime).  Right now you're napping beside me (naps have become a battle of wills), and you're stirring, so I'm going to end here and say we love you times infinity. 

And, also, please be easy on us.  

Here's to a spectacular year-and-a-half.

11 Months

Annie,

Guess where I am?!  Over 10,000 feet in the air on my way to Arizona for work.  I suspect right now you’re beginning your morning at daycare, yogurt in your tummy and playing alongside Thomas, Abigail and the other babies.

Your dad and I are having the time of our lives with you: every week you dazzle us with something new.  You absolutely adore music.  We signed you up for a music class at daycare every Tuesday, and your teachers are tickled by how much you dance!  You sway and bob your head to the beat and bat your arms: you shake maracas and bells and twirl scarves.  You love anything with a strong beat and constantly shake your head to the jazzy scat that plays from your Leapfrog toy table.  The other night we put on house music – a nice club mix – and we had a dance party in the living room.  Well, after all of this dad ordered a whole set of baby instruments from Amazon (I think for him as much as for you), which I believe you’re receiving in the mail today!  Can’t wait to see the concert when I get home.

Your therapy is going well, and you are making small (but marked!) improvements.  We try to work with you every evening on tummy time and your transitions (you still don’t quite know how to get from laying to sitting, from laying to rolling, and from sitting to crawling).  You still refuse to crawl and scoot everywhere now; we’re supposed to dissuade this – and most of the time we do, putting you once again in the crawling stance to develop your stomach and arm muscles – but sometimes you’re beaming as you scoot from one toy to the next and we don’t have the heart to fight you.  Some days your head tilt is quite noticeable, and then I won’t notice anything for days on end.  Your neck range of motion is good as you’re building those neck muscles slowly but surely. 

What I love most about going to therapy is watching you in the waiting room.  I’ve noticed this too at daycare when you’re in the “drop off” room with older toddlers: you lock your eyes on those older kids and are positively enraptured by what they do.  It’s almost as if we can see your little mind working overtime figuring out what these “cool” older kids are all about.  In the waiting room you whip your head from left to right so you don’t miss any of their antics.  Many of the kids in the waiting room are very curious and outgoing and come up to you and ask your name.  We tell them “Annie” and one boy said, “You don’t look like an Annie!”  You just continued to stare at him in wonderment, watching as he jumped around the room and hung on to his mother’s legs.

Daddy loves walking with you: he holds your hands and you take wobbly steps.  Our therapist chastised him, though!  She said you need to learn your basics, first, and to concentrate on building those stomach and arm muscles!  Of course, your father didn’t listen and still continues walking around the living room with you.  You love it, too, and you both mimic each other’s grins as you put one foot in front of the next.  You’re also “cruising” around our new square ottoman; you love the thrill and the challenge of rounding those corners.

I’ve noticed you’re more vocal with your displeasure.  You do a particularly loud shriek when your diaper desperately needs to be changed (the last time in Wegman’s when I needed to finish shopping, and girl, you were not pleased!), and another shriek when you are dissatisfied.  Although you’re willful (which we love), we are still constantly impressed on how you take your colds in stride.  You sure have a lot of poise for someone with snot running down her little nose; I think you get that from your father who refuses to admit he’s sick unless he’s absolutely bedridden. (I’m a different story!)

We’re trying to transition you to more finger foods and two nights ago I made you a big plate of little cut-up carrots, string beans and shredded chicken.  You tried it but weren’t impressed and then swept the contents of the plate onto the floor for Penny.  Well – we tried.  Sometimes you love finger foods, but it’s touch and go.  We’re trying to introduce more as we heard you’re picking up and stealing food from the other babies at daycare!  The other day I was sitting on the floor with you and Penny and you both stopped what you were doing because I had a banana in hand – both you and the dog go bananas for bananas!  So we all sat there – the three of us – and shared the fruit.

You still adore Penny, and although she’s such a sweet and gentle dog, she’s not one for playing.  You scoot over to her and she promptly gets up and moves to the other side of the room.  You frown and I think she just doesn’t know what to make of you, but she always bounds out of the house excited to greet you at the end of the day, showing her love by jumping up and licking your little toes.

My little work trips, and daycare drop offs, are getting harder as your personality blossoms.  I think your father said it best with, “She’s just the coolest person I know.”  We can hardly believe your big one-year bash is less than a month away.  Happy 11 months, Annie – we love all of you: your shrieks, your (almost) toothless grins, and your ceaseless wonderment as you begin to explore this big, wide world in front of you.

10 Months

When I was at an event for my company yesterday evening, one of my co-workers, who works in headquarters and whom I haven't seen since last fall, saddled up to me and exclaimed, "I haven't seen you since last year and you were at the end of your pregnancy!"  And Annie, that's when I realized you are 10 whole months today. This is startling to me: you're going to be tottering across the kitchen floor soon enough, and probably rolling your eyes at me not long after that.

But for now I'll cherish these months: you have grown into a spirited little girl who loves squeezing my nose and laughing at Penny.  You adore the view from shopping carts, and love when we push you higher in your swing.  Recently your father taught you his sign for dog (and pretty much the furthest thing from the official baby sign for dog) by sticking his tongue out and panting.  Now you do it, too.  So there you both are, tongues displayed, panting up a storm, and you think the whole thing is a riot.  

You were born with a crook in your neck: a tightened muscle due to the tight nook you snuggled into for the last two months of pregnancy that causes your head to tilt to the left.  This is called torticollis and you have a milder case, but we have just started taking you to physical therapy.  You've only had three appointments, but I swear, the whole thing is empowering you.  You have hated "tummy time" from the get-go, and I've learned it's related to the strain in your neck, but tonight you played and pivoted on your stomach for over ten minutes.  For many babies, this is elementary and they are crawling.  For you, this is simply marvelous.  You have always been a champion sitter, but watching you make circles on your stomach was one of those special parent "firsts" for us. We're learning new stretches and exercises to give you, and while you hate them, you always forgive us afterwards with the sweetest grin (or controlled grimace).

In so many ways you have been very easy on your two clueless parents.  When you're sick, we hardly know.  You get quiet. Maybe tired.  But you hardly ever make a fuss.  Last week all three of us were as sick as dogs - your dad even stayed home from work for a couple days - but we would hardly know you were sick except the little coughs we heard coming from your room late into the night.  The baby monitor would come alive with your little chest bursts, and we'd stop breathing - wondering if you were going to wake up - but you just dozed off again.  You were always a fabulous sleeper.

You only have two teeth at this point (the bottom middle two), and love to gum wet wash clothes.  You still like most food, but are a bit more fussy when it comes to our lumpier concoctions (I suppose it doesn't sound appetizing when you put it that way).  We puree your foods with brown rice now, or throw in a bit of pasta, and we've realized you just don't enjoy chewing, lazy bones!  You love your baby "puffs" (those Cheerio-like things that are marketed to tots) and we had to bring some in to daycare when Fran and Dana said you've been stealing from the other babies!  You even got into a bit of trouble last week: you put so many puffs into your mouth your dad had to throw you over his knee and get you to spit them out.  About 12 sticky puffs came shooting to the kitchen floor.  Of course, one minute later you were back in your high chair getting your little fingers on all the stray puffs in sight.  Your dad applauded this effort, saying you "gotta get back on the horse".  I just rolled my eyes and put the damn things back in the pantry.

For the past month you've been almost completely weened - I would have nursed longer but you just had other plans.  Our nursing sessions got shorter and shorter because there was just so much to see and do: your dad would walk into the room and you'd quickly turn your heard to see what was happening.  Or Penny would shake her head and you'd turn to see what that pup was up to.  Being stuck to a boob was obviously not one of your top priorities.  So, we nurse quickly in the morning but that's all, and two months ago I stopped pumping at work.  (Which, honestly, is mind-blowingly liberating!)  With my work trips and struggles to get down to the lactation room, I was struggling to keep up my supply regardless.  We even tried fenugreek and Mother's Milk tea (atrocious), which both promise to up a mother's supply, but the whole thing was futile and I found myself crying in the lactation room over only collecting a measly ounce.  That night, when I said I just couldn't do it any longer, I knew it was the right decision. I'm saddened that the sun is setting on our nursing sessions, but, little girl, you haven't missed a beat and I was completely wrong when I instructed your dad that "we need to introduce formula slowly to her."  I shouldn't have underestimated you (and your appetite).  Girl, you gobbled that bottle right up and never looked back!

And lastly, today you started waving.  You waved goodbye to your therapist, Heidi, to your daycare provider, and lastly, when dad brought you home, you waved to greet me in our driveway.  And I knew I was home.

Happy 10 months, kiddo.

New Beginnings

I've wanted to write this post for quite a while, and I've thought about the tone in which I'd write it, or the language I'd use and all of those writer's flourishes that dance on so many of the blogs and pieces I adore. But now that pen is to paper (or, in my case, fingers to keyboard) no fabulous cheekiness is coming to me. No play on words or goofy sentiments, either. So, with that, I will say this, plainly but full of love, hope, and giddiness: I am pregnant (I have to say it again: I am pregnant!!!) and Matt and I couldn't be more happily terrified.

We have entered our second trimester and are due mid-November. We learned of the pregnancy the second week of March, with very little pomp and circumstance. I went for my blood test on a Friday morning (a week after I was laid off), and Matt planned to come home around 2 pm to take the results call with me. They always call after 2 pm, but that Friday the phone rang at 12:30 pm and the nurse said - I remember so clearly - "So, ya ever have a positive pregnancy test?".

We didn't celebrate that night, or the following few weeks. We tempered our expectations - my progesterone and estrogen levels were woefully low and I was being propped up on several supplements. But, my beta numbers (hCG - the pregnancy hormone) kept rising, and then we had an ultrasound and saw the yolk sac. Our next ultrasound we saw a smudge in the yolk sac. On our next ultrasound the smudge was now a shrimp, and was larger and had a heartbeat, and now, many weeks later, our smudge is a baby the size of a lemon who kicks, punches, and makes us hold our breath every time we see him or her on the ultrasound monitor.

As the weeks progressed, I felt more free to believe everything would be okay. I visited baby forums, read no less than 200 reviews of strollers on Babies R Us and Target.com and last week, as we entered our second trimester, Matt turned to me and said, "We have so much to do before the baby comes; we have to make a list!" There is always risk, and it is still early, but we've finally exhaled, and we have never been more happy.

Matt, being Matt, has named the baby "Cletus the Fetus". "How's Cletus today, K?!" Me, being me, usually snottily retorts with, "Well, our CHILD weighs an ounce, so it's not like I feel him wiggling around in there." Matt wants a boy, but only because he doesn't know what to do with a girl. He is scared of them and their pink and lace and temper tantrums. I have no gender expectations, but I do hope he or she has Matt's kindness, patience, joie de vivre, and perfect health, and what I'd like to think of as my strong sense of self and sardonic humor. I'd also like them to not inherent Matt's hairiness - well, that goes more so if the baby is a girl.

When it rains, it pours. I'm starting a new job in Philadelphia after Memorial Day (yes; it take a lot for that to be second-rate news!), and although nervous and a bit overwhelmed, I think I'm really kickin' ass these days. Of course, there are some hiccups: today my ob/gyn told me I really need to to control my rocketing weight (oops - I finally looked at the number on the scale after many appointments of eyes squeezed shut and, sadly, I have to admit, a few tears were shed), and then there's the whole thing of the world ending tomorrow on the 21st. Just when things were really starting to look up...

In my "real" life I am still keeping this news to close friends and family and there will be no Facebook announcement (now or later), but a few readers have reached out individually, and I'm so glad I can now share the news with everyone on the blog. I owe you a world of gratitude: however cheesy this sounds, your support and comments were rays of sunshine in my inbox, and I can only hope I can return the same happiness you have given me.

And The Beat Goes On

"The English language lacks the words to mourn an absence. For the loss of a parent, grandparent, spouse, child, or friend, we have all manner of words and phrases, some helpful, some not. Still, we are conditioned to say something, even if it is only "I am sorry for your loss." But for an absence, for someone who was never there at all, we are wordless to capture that particular emptiness. For those who deeply want children and are denied them, those missing babies hover like silent, ephemeral shadows over their lives. Who can describe the feeling of a tiny hand that is never held?"
~Laura Bush


I don’t want to be schmaltzy or melodramatic – and I never thought I’d have a Bush quotation on this blog! – but I thought Laura Bush’s comments in her recent memoir summed up – so accurately – how I feel. And I cry every time I read it.

Matt and I had such high hopes for our IVF cycle. I tried to temper my enthusiasm but didn’t sleep Thursday into Friday – the day of our egg retrieval – and was giddy on the drive to New Jersey. During my ultrasound before the procedure they saw 22 eggs – 14 of them ended up being viable and I jokingly said they better be “big and juicy” and the ultrasound tech and I laughed. Everyone I came into contact (oh, those poor nurses, the embryologist, the two anaesthesiologists) heard me chirping way about how this was my first time, and I had lots of eggs, and everything looks good, right?! And then there I was in the procedure room, in stir-ups, oxygen in my nose, an IV in my hand, and the doctor walks in and says, “I’m concerned about your estrogen levels; they are at 900 and they should be around 1500,” and then I was asleep.

I love anesthesia. Perhaps that’s an odd thing to say, but I love the peace of it. I’m never nauseous or groggy afterwards - just rested. I always try to pinpoint exactly when I go under – on Friday I said with verve, “I can still hear you!” and they responded “Not for long!” and that was the last thing I remembered. I woke up and they were helping me into a wheelchair, and then into the recovery bed, telling me they extracted 14 eggs and I was happy - even with low estrogen (which affects fertilization) I thought some of those had to fertilize and heck, let’s go get some lunch, which we did.

On Saturday they called to tell me eight of the eggs had successfully fertilized and they were freezing four. On Sunday they called and of the four remaining, three were still viable at the two-cell stage. It was then I started getting nervous: why haven’t they divided any further? But our ET was scheduled at 9:30 the following morning, and we left at 7:30 to beat the traffic through the city and I joked about how I was going to run Matt ragged while I was on bed rest and how – if this all worked – we wouldn’t tell our child they came from a stork, but a petri dish (we find this endlessly funny), and with that we crossed the Betsy Ross Bridge into Jersey.

I received a call when were five minutes away: our eggs have not split since yesterday, and they were still only two cells, and they were not likely to ever split again. Our transfer was canceled. On the phone with the embryologist I was almost chipper – or at least pleasant. I motioned for Matt to turn the car around, hung up, and then cried. I’m not going to say I have it awful, because I don’t. I’m not going to say how horrible my situation is, because I know it isn’t. But I will say I sobbed – big, loud snot-filled sobs full of anger and frustration and worry, and didn’t stop until we were ten minutes from home. At first we said we’d go to work to take our mind off it, but as I started crying – staring in my closet at work ensembles –we decided we’d spend the day at home, exchange our Christmas presents, and just be.

And we didn’t lay in bed and wallow: we went out to lunch, mocked Oprah during her “Favorite Things” episode (we were particularly aghast one of her favorite things was a $120 can of popcorn and then $200 leggings – really?!), and made dinner. Work today has been harder: I could not smile or make chitchat through a holiday lunch. My head is heavy and I am exhausted. With one cycle in the bucket, we know we only have one left. We don’t know what this all means: will this always happen? How common is this? Can we change the protocol to combat this? What happened to my estrogen levels on that last day? Statistically, how viable are those four frozen eggs because it costs a hell of a lot of money to thaw them? I have so many questions but our appointment isn’t until January 7th. We are going to take the next month off. We first wanted to plow through – to be done with this whole process by early spring – but I’m tired and defeated. This process is dehumanizing: every other day I’m at the office, in line for an ultrasound, in line for blood work, legs spread, arm extended. My menstrual cycle has dictated our last six months. Every other afternoon I wait for the call with my blood results and next steps. Every other morning I drive the hour to the office. Every night and morning I take my oral medications, my shots. Hell, I’m beat.

Matt keeps saying we have each other, and I know that is so true, but that doesn’t stop me from every day wanting so much more.

Luscious, luscious food

A normal person would be able to quantify their depression by the fact they consumed an entire package of Oreos (with nary their partner's help) in two days. I wish I had that excuse.

I love food. Bad food. Good-for-you food. All of it.

Hence the new layout! Thanks, Blogger. You really treat a tech-adverse girl well.

27 going on 60

I am the only person I know, who, in their late 20’s, gets short of breath (in the bad way) when thinking of retirement savings. I can’t help it.

My co-worker Courtney called me neurotic as I sat fidgeting in her office chair waxing poetic about long-lost private-sector pensions. I recently found out about how lush teachers’ pensions and benefits can be, and have been nursing a mean jealous streak ever since (and the urge to ditch it all and become a teacher). I tell Matt things like, “We need a Vanguard account!” (Note: I know nothing about mutual funds or Vanguard accounts…I just like to say it). Matt tells me to, essentially, shut-up. “We have 40 more years to figure this out,” he says. The thought of working 40 more years is almost as depressing as our bleak financial future. Sometimes he says, “You might not even be around 40 years from now, so quit worrying.” (Lovely.) He follows that up with, “We’re young – who do you know who puts money into their 401(k) like we do?!” to which I reply, “EVERYONE!” and bury my face in my pillow. In a moment of panic this week I upped my 401(k) contribution from 10 to 15% and demanded Matt do the same. I also like to say we need a Roth IRA. I have NO IDEA what a Roth IRA is but I heard Suze Orman talking about them, and I want one.

Two weeks ago I announced, over omlettes, that we needed a budget. “We need to control our spending!” I huffed. Mid-chomp, Matt said, “What spending? I don’t buy anything,” to which I replied, “Well, I do.” We then logged on to view my credit card statement and, after subtracting things like food and gas, I was left with what I spent on a skirt and dress and some odds and ends I picked up at Target. I replied that they were obviously necessities and they didn’t count, but the crux of my argument was that, “You’re a guy; you wouldn’t understand”, which I don’t think he bought. So much for our budget.

I wouldn’t call us particularly thrifty, and we’re definitely not spend thrifts. We’re just…normal. I will forever be a champion of economy cars and the thought of having a Coach bag just ticks me off, but I love going out to eat and furnishing our home (relatively cheaply, of course). And damnit, if that frilly skirt is $100 bucks but I swear, swear, swear I’ll wear it all the time and I love it and I won’t buy another thing that month, then YES, I’m buying it. Look, it’s all about balance. And a good skirt.

I bring this up because I also worry about medical expenses. For example, like many of my surgical Crohn’s brethren, I have to bear a monthly B12 shot for the rest of my life. The negotiated rate with my insurance carrier (I am on a high-deductible plan, so I essentially pay in-full until I meet my deductible, but all “in-full” prices are the negotiated and preferred cost through the carrier) is $156. One hundred and fifty-six dollars for a shot of …a vitamin. Per month. Negotiated rate. The “negotiated” rate for Pentasa, my maintenance drug, hovers slightly under $500 a month. So, yes, I worry about money. And insurance. I think I should.

It is a bad thing to have Crohn’s and be a neurotic worrier. Stress makes my symptoms worse. And duh, stress also inhibits your ability to conceive. Last month my ob/gyn told me I need to reduce my stress. This statement elevated my stress. Couldn’t she see that was futile? That I’m having trouble with work, with trying to had a kid, and by golly, with the fact we have no retirement savings and no solid plan in place?! I thought that but all I said was, “Okay.” That’s pretty much how it always goes.

Matt will often sit me down and say, “What can I do to help you relax?” The first answer is always food. Tortilla chips or chocolate are often involved – but that really goes without saying. After that, it gets a bit grey. I’d like to believe I’m the least high-strung member of my family – it’s in the genes. But I ask for impossible things. Past answers have been, “New intestines and/or immune system”, “my own dog hotel business” (no laughing!), “you making 200k a year or winning the lottery”, and “a 30 minute back rub” (trust me, the last one is impossible). He’ll respond with, “Well, what about one of those puddings in the fridge?” “With whipped cream on top?” I’ll ask. “Yes.” “Deal.”

Now if you’ll excuse me. I have to go study for a test I have tonight that I’m worried about.

PS: You may have noticed (well, probably not, who am I kidding?!) that my posts have been less frequent. I’m enrolled in a class that will hopefully prepare me for a professional certification exam I’m taking in May. It would be a lie to say I have no time to post, but I love to watch t.v. on my time off. I adore t.v. I am nothing but an uneducated commoner, what can I say?! Posts until the end of May might be less frequent, but don’t worry, they’ll still be filled of my complaining (about health care, money, oh, you name it!) and of course food (that’s a given!).

Sick brings out the new

UPDATE: I went back to yellow, but this time with a blue. What can I say; old habits die hard.

When I get sick it's a full-blown event at the house. I whine, I bitch, I lay on the bed saying I'm near death, and both Penny and Matt head for the hills. Or, in this case, anywhere but my sick-den: the bedroom. When my distress is Crohn's-related, I'm much less histrionic because that is actually semi-serious. But when it's a cold? Watch out.

I very rarely lose my appetite when I'm sick (I swear, I could be on death-bed and ask for some Doritos and a Caesar salad...speaking of.....), but I do get persnickety. Several years ago I was very sick but - out of the blue - demanded a sandwich from Quizznos. Poor Matt obliged and came home with a sub, which I immediately labeled as "gross" and rolled over in bed.

This has not much to do with anything, but I was saddled with an annoying cold this week so I decided to re-do the page a bit. Who wasn't sick of that yellow and purple?

Crohnsy Update

I definitely have my moments of, "Not again..." (usually when I'm just falling asleep late at night) or sometimes, "Oh shit..." (this is usually when I'm halfway between work and home and have to immediately use the restroom). This weekend has been particularly trying as I've been running to the loo since Friday afternoon (suspiciously since the time of my work's cook-off; I'm guessing there was definitely some tampering with food since the competition is so high-stakes and all, I mean, we give out wooden spoons with ribbons tied on them for gosh sakes!).

I saw my surgeon a few weeks ago for a follow-up. Upon him walking into the examination room, I said I was feeling great, this is all just a formality (right?), and what time is your last patient because you're looking ridiculously dashing today (fine! I did not say that).

A few minutes later, when he was inspecting my incision site, I mentioned I was feeling a bit crampy. "You just said you were great," he replied. I told him yes, I am, but sometimes I have cramps. He asked if I needed the Percocet. I told him it was nothing like that, just subtle. He laughed and looked at me. "You're fine."

This is the thing: I have minor cramping, and a lot of phantom pain. After every twinge of discomfort, no matter how small, I hold my breath and wait. Did it go away? Is it all happening again? Was my surgery for nothing? Is there some way to get a new immune system? My can't intestines regenerate like worms? (Well, I think most of these things.)

But I suppose that is no way to live; I'm neurotic enough as it is, why add this to the mix? I have better things to worry about, namely, what are we going to have for dinner tomorrow night, and what the heck is Matt doing now?

Crohn's Update

I realized today I have not written on my Crohn's. That's not to say Crohn's isn't a near constant in my life: I'm reminded four times a day when I take my meds and when I suddenly have to clench my butt checks and shuffle into the bathroom. But, I'm feeling terrific. I am ready to start moving again - I have never yearned to exercise before. (It's probably because I haven't broken a sweat since late October / early November, but I foresee this feeling evaporating after one lonesome gym visit.)

I am traveling for the next two weeks: this upcoming week I'll be in Las Vegas for a conference, and the following week I'll be in New Orleans for a convention (I have to man the booth and look chipper). I find it amusing that these two cities are associated with sin and mischief, and I'm so square. I guess it makes for a nice juxtaposition.

Anyway, I'm saying all of this so you know that's my excuse for not already returning to the gym. I'm am, however, hoping to come back from Vegas with a lot of stories of Matt's bad gambling tactics. He is coming with me, and who knows what he'll be doing during the daytime while I'm in class. I'm thinking probably not leaving the hotel room and coding. Which, in all actuality, is a vacation for him. I told him to at least bring the computer out to the pool to enjoy some butlered drinks, but he wasn't having it. He is, however, very much looking forward to the buffets. Okay, so am I.

Let THEM eat cake!

If I ever see "giant burger" on a menu and say, "Ooo! Let's go for it!", SLAP ME.

So when I'm not huddling under covers cowering from a lonesome bat, or getting pulled over by diminutive park rangers, I have been getting around and going out. In fact, today was my first day back at work! Now mind you, it was a half day and I went home to take a nap (and then bake a cake, but more on that later), but I showed my face at work and managed to inhale two bagels while at it (thank you Leigh Ann for bringing those in! - carbs are my best friend).

Health Update: Let's start off with my fat roll (FR) update, shall we? I mean, I don't think I mentioned my dearest friend for a couple weeks, and that is just uncalled for. So, my incision is healing nicely, even in the pesky FR. I did make the mistake of showing the incision to my sister on Mother's Day weekend and she promptly screamed and backed away quickly, so that was reassuring.

My stomach is incredibly sensitive - much more so than prior to the surgery. I'm making the mistake of trying to eat like a normal person - who do I think I am?! This afternoon I baked a cake, and not ten minutes after tasting my delicious concoction, I ran to the bathroom...and still am. (I swear, the cake isn't contaminated or anything.) I've noticed I cannot handle any fat - and fat is delicious! So, I can have a bagel, but have limited options for toppings. I can have a sandwich, but can't put a slice of cheese on it. I can have guacamole (not sure if "healthy" fat bothers me), but can't have a chip to dip it in. I can have a baked potato, but no sour cream or butter to take it from bland to dazzling! Dairy and sugar are also taking a toll. Not that his has stopped me. Last week I had brownies with milk. DOUBLE NO! This afternoon? My sugary chocolate cake had a buttercream icing.

I think it's about time I realize I have Crohn's, and I have to buck-up and shut-up. So, I'm trying to be serious for once and will be starting a food diary. Maybe I'll draw flowers in the margins like I did in my journal from junior high - you know, just to make it more interesting. Ooo...and maybe some catty comments and mentionings of celebrity crushes...you know, just for good measure. My stomach never tolerated fat/sugar/sugar substitutes/red meat/spicy and acidic foods well, but this is a whole other ball game, and I gotta buckle down.

With that said: my HR friends, you will be getting yourself some chocolate cake tomorrow. ENJOY. (Even though I'm snarling, I mean it....no, really!)