Inappropriate Use of Super Glue

I don’t know what Santa puts in the stockings at your house, but here at the Psych Ward, he gets “creative” in his stocking stuffers (translation: desperate.) In addition to candy canes, chocolate “coal” and other random junky toys, Santa goes a little utilitarian. Everyone always gets new toothpaste, toothbrush, flossers (which will most likely get used for anything but teeth or shoved in the back of the drawer never to be used), fun pens, crazy socks and the like. The adults also receive things like Tylenol, breath mints, hand sanitizer and SuperGlue. We go through an alarming amount of SuperGlue at our house, because the PSW inmates’ motto in life is, “Drive it like you stole it.” (It’s a good thing we don’t live in Japan and do the whole Kintsugi method of repair — We’d be flat broke!)

As always, Santa came through on the Super Glue. I try my best to keep it out of reach from the inmates, but I guess that just seems to make it all the more tempting for First Born. The other day I found a tube of it sitting on the counter. “Hmmm…I don’t remember leaving it there.”

So I went and poked my head in the Warden’s office. “Did you use the SuperGlue recently?”

“No. Why?”

My shoulders drooped and I shook my head. “Well, if it wasn’t you, then that just means that First Born’s been up to something.”

“Hey First Born. What were you using the Super Glue for? And before you deny it, I know it wasn’t Dad, so it had to be you.”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

Great. That meant it was something particularly devious and I was sure to find out what it was when I was either delousing his room or at some other inopportune moment.

That moment came a few days later when I was up to my elbows in sorting laundry. “Didn’t I just do all the laundry like ten minutes ago?!! How?! How does one person go through this many T-shirts? But wait. Shouldn’t there be more underwear? Where’s the underwear? Oh…still attached to the pants I see. Excellent.”

Just then, Young Son comes bounding over wearing only his Pokemon undies. “Tah Dahhhh!!! BEHOLD!” Then burst out into hysterical laughter.

On his head he was wearing a winter stocking hat with something sticking straight up off the top of it where the pom pom should go. I sighed. “What fresh hell is this?”

Young Son gleefully answered, “It’s a PENIS!” and then rolled around on the floor gasping for air between gales of laughter.

Yep. So it was. It was an eight inch penis made out of bright yellow modeling clay, complete with testicles and a surprising amount of detail. And how was it attached to the (brand new) stocking hat??? You guessed it. Super Glue. This stunt had First Born’s trademark all over it.

In addition to being annoyed that a brand new hat was basically ruined, my mind immediately came up with all the ways that First Born was planning on using said penis hat. Other than corrupting his little brother and sister, what if he wore it to a friend’s house? What would the mom think?!? Or what if he wore it to school?! I broke out in a cold sweat just thinking about that call from the principal.

I ripped the penis off, threw it in the trash and tossed the hat in the laundry that conveniently surrounded me.

Suddenly we heard First Born thundering down the hall yelling, “YOUNG SOOOOONNN!!! What did you DO!?! Where’s the PENIS!?!?! GIVE ME BACK THE PENIS!!!”

I turned to Young Son, “Dude. You better hide!”

First Born burst into the room, nostrils flaring, looking for his rat fink of a little brother. “Why did you have to go and show Mom for?!?! What were you thinking?!?!”

Then he turned to me. “Where is it?? Give me my penis back!!!”

At which point, I burst out laughing like…well…a pre-teen boy! “Really?! You’re really asking me where your penis is?!”

Oh. He did NOT like that. At. All. I don’t know if he was more angry that Young Son had gone and shown it to me, or more embarrassed that I had seen his weird pornographic headwear. He decided to stick with the anger part and tried to pound on his brother.

“Why did you think Mom would think that’s funny!??”

Now normally, he’s right. The funnier they think something is, the less I’m amused by it. And based on Young Son’s reaction, I was definitely not going to be amused by it.

But in this case, it was sorta funny. I mean I did cringe at the thought of what he was planning on using the hat for…and he did ruin a brand new hat in the making of it. But really. He’s eleven. That’s what boys that age do. They make jokes about penises and balls and farts and poop. Annoying? Yes. Abnormal? No.

After he calmed down later, I said, “Look. I love your creativity, but could you please harness your powers for GOOD?!” He sullenly agreed.

In the meantime, the penis has mysteriously gone missing from the trash. Perhaps he’s taken my advice to heart and he’s busy setting up his new millinery shop on Etsy. I’ll keep you updated.

Please note: I have not posted a picture of the detailed penis so I don’t get banned from Facebook or have the authorities knocking on my door.

Pranks from the Darth Side

Somehow I’ve managed to survive most of winter break with a few remaining shards of sanity. That’s not to say my children haven’t tried their best to break me. Considering the condition of my house and their things, “broken” seems to be their preferred state.

At least a few of their toys have stood the test of time. A couple of years ago, I found a four-foot tall Darth Vader figure on super duper clearance after Christmas and gave it to First Born for his February birthday. Darth has been an unwilling prop for of quite a few pranks in our house.

Poor Darth. He used to have a light saber, but Warrior Princess knocked him over within the first five minutes being in our house and it broke. Yeah. That was fun.
Like I said, broken is a constant state in our house.

For instance, one April Fools Day, he and Yoda were hanging out in First Born’s bed reading Star Wars books together. Or there was the time Darth was lurking in First Born’s closet in case I went in to search for contraband. (Luckily First Born was at school when I found him that time, because my scream would have been far too rewarding for First Born.)

Sadly, First Born did not find this as amusing as I did. What a dud.

Or there was the time I hid him in our bathroom to try to freak out the Warden when he was coming home late from his monthly poker game. I ended up freaking out myself, because I forgot Darth was in there when I stumbled into the bathroom later that night before the Warden even got home. *sigh* It probably wouldn’t have worked anyway, because I doubt it would have even fazed him. He would have just rolled his eyes and muttered things about how weird his wife was and questioned his reasons for marrying me in the first place.

Darth came out again the other day when Jiminy Cricket, his little brother and their mom were over. All was going so well — the littles were in the living room playing all things Paw Patrol, the bigs were upstairs doing stinky boy things and we moms were sitting in the kitchen enjoying a break from them. Suddenly we hear screaming from the littles, then the sound of our front door opening and them running outside yelling, “Darth Vader is outside!!”

Now most other moms may have been alarmed. Not Jiminy’s mom. In case you don’t remember, she survived The Epic Sleepover and has five kids of her own. The woman’s seen things and lived to tell about them. She merely raised an eyebrow and we strolled out to the front to see what was going down.

Here’s what we saw:

And then here’s what our neighbors or anyone driving by saw:

I’m just grateful no one called the cops and that our neighbors still speak to us.

Getting Ready for Christmas at the Pediatric Psych Ward

Warrior Princess will be happy to tell you exactly how many days it is until Christmas, as she asks Alexa about twelve times per day and is dutiful with moving the candy cane each morning on our Advent calendar. The other day Young Son got to the calendar first and moved the candy cane before she could. She was not pleased and gave her brother an earful about his poor choice. Then she moved the candy cane back to the previous day, stared him straight in the eye while slowly moving it back to the current day’s pocket. She threw in an extra pissy glare at him to solidify her domination of the Advent calendar, and then stomped off to take names elsewhere. He stood there slightly stunned, looked at me and mouthed the word, “WOW!” I could only shake my head and shrug in response. Sorry pal. Get used to it.

As usual, I’m behind schedule and all my hopes and dreams of a peaceful, memorable holiday season are all but nil. But at least The Pediatric Psych Ward’s annual Christmas card is finally wrapped up and in the mail. Every year I keep promising myself (and our photographer) that next year will be better — more organized, less yelling, and not a complete debacle of epic proportions. Alas, the annual nightmare continues. Here’s how it usually goes:

In October I start thinking, “I’m going to be organized this year and get our Christmas card done in November. I better start coming up with a fun idea for this year’s design.” I started doing crazy cards when First Born was two years old. (Like you expected The PSW’s cards to be classy??) Since then it has become an expectation from people that each year will be creative and goofy. Friends and family start asking me months in advance if I have my card planned out. (Cue the start of the holiday stress.) Every single year I wrack my brain to come up with something new and amusing and present my ideas to The Warden to see if any stick.

After we’ve come up with a final plan, I loop in our photographer to my weird ideas. Let me tell you, the woman is the patron saint of patience. She has been chronicling our crazy since we got married over fourteen years ago, and she hasn’t blocked my number yet. She has SIX boys of her own, and either they have completely broken her and my crew is a walk in the park, or she uses it as a reality check. “Oh yeah. I guess I DO have it good.”

Photoshoot day is always a complete cluster, but she just rolls with it…or maybe she just heavily medicates before she comes in. The inmates take over her studio, chaos ensues, props are abused, fights are fought, outfits tugged on and someone is crying (it’s usually me.) Then First Born starts trying to run the photo shoot, striking bad senior portrait poses, making weird faces or yelling at his brother to smile like a normal person. Then I start yelling, sweating, bribing, threatening and begging. Over the years I’ve finally learned that I just need to leave the room and let her work her magic, because let’s be honest. I am half of the problem.

This year she came to our house for the annual torture fest. As soon as she pulled up, the inmates were clamoring over who got to help haul in her expensive equipment. (I mean where are these punks when I have a trunk full of groceries?! Not helping me, that’s where!) As she was setting up, they were all up in her business asking her rapid fire questions about her lights and backdrops, telling her vast details about Minecraft or showing his or her latest stupid human trick. Oh to have just a fraction of her patience and grace…

Then came time to get down to business. Young Son put on his outfit without a fuss, Warrior Princess squirmed around and grabbed her crotch a lot because her tights were too short, and then First Born saw the sweater I’d bought for him. Holy hell. “WHAT?! I’m not wearing that! That’s hideous! I could enter an ‘Ugly Sweater’ contest in that thing and I’d win first prize!” (Mind you, it was a plain burgundy V-neck sweater. Do you see what I live with?) At that point I left the room after giving a stern reminder that Miss Sarah was in charge and to listen…or else!

She started to pose them and I kept hearing, “Okay! Look at me…No. First Born, stop making that hand gesture. Thank you, now straighten your head…Warrior Princess, can you tilt your chin down like I taught you so we don’t get glare on your glasses? No. Not that far. Okay. Better….Young Son, look at me. Okay. Smile nicely. No, I don’t need to see ALL of your teeth…First Born, seriously. Stop with the hand gesture! Okay! Ready…one…two…Young Son, look at the camera!” And it and on and on it went. How she never breaks down into a puddle of tears and profanity at some point is simply amazing. (Note to self: ask Miss Sarah which happy pills she takes.)

All the while, The Warden had been hiding out in his office avoiding the whole spectacle. This year I decided it was time to take a whole family portrait again. Because really, why not add to the torture? He hates having his picture taken even more than I do, so I considered it a win when I got to make him miserable for awhile. I called him out of his office and heard muttering and shuffling. “Why exactly are we doing this??”

“Because it will make our mothers happy. Suck it up.”

“Sigh…Fine. Guys, come on. Let’s get this over with.” We all sat awkwardly together and tried to look as if we liked each other. First Born started in again being obnoxious and the Warden got after him through clenched teeth, “Will you knock it off?! This is totally uncomfortable sitting like this. Can we get just get done already for the love of God??!”

Miss Sarah shot pictures as quickly as she could. She scrolled through the images, tried not to grimace and said, “Okay…I think can work with these.” Let’s just say I’m extremely grateful for her PhotoShop talents. The Warden made a beeline back to his office and shut the door. Mission accomplished.

It was finally time for Miss Sarah to pack up and head back to try to work miracles on the photos she shot. The inmates helped her wrestle all her gear out to her car, and I thanked her profusely for putting up with the nightmare once again. As she was pulling away, Warrior Princess said, “I bet Miss Sarah’s going home to take a nap now.”

And miracles she did work. Among all the pictures taken, somehow she was able to cobble together a nice one. First Born either had his eyes shut or was making weird hand gestures in half of them. In the other half, Young Son was doing his bizarre side-eye smile. (I swear to God, the kid always looks like a crazed serial killer in every posed picture.)

After about 80 of my obnoxious revisions to the copy and layout, our Christmas card was born and they are now in the mail. I am having an anxiety attack just thinking about how they will be received. Will people like them or just think I’m really weird? Will relatives call my mother and ask if I’m not well in the head? Every year, people. Every. Year.

So now that this year’s Christmas card insanity is put to bed, it’s time to start baking and wrapping gifts. I have neither baked a single stinking cookie nor wrapped one present. I went into the season with my usual good intentions, but as always things just fell apart. Why do I do this to myself year after year? I hope when the inmates look back at the Christmases of their childhood, they’ll at least know that I tried to make it magical and wonderful.

In the meantime, I hope you have a beautiful and magical holiday season!

Back to School Anxiety

THE END IS NEAR!!! I can see the light! School starts this week!

One could interpret that in two very different ways:

busPositive: “Hooray! I survived summer break without a visit from DCFS or jail time! There is light at the end of this never-ending tunnel! Is that bus headlights coming toward me?? *Sniiiifffff* I smell diesel! Hallelujah!!!”

 

Negative: “I’m dying! The Four Horsemen are coming! That light is so beautiful…but why do I see my ancestors beckoning me to come hither? Yep. The non-stop fighting and complaining of the inmates has finally killed me.”

First Born and Young Son go back to school on Wednesday. (Meaning Tuesday is Supply Drop-off/Meet the Teacher day, and we all know how much I loathe THAT day.)

But even more stressful than that is the fact that First Born starts middle school this year. I know he’s looking forward to some aspects of it, like feeling grown-up and having more independence. But I can tell that the reality of it has been starting to sink in over the past few weeks. Let’s just say he’s been far from a joy to live with lately. I need to remind myself that this isn’t all toxic pre-teen hormones making him surly and short-tempered. All. The. Time. A lot of it is anxiety oozing out of him in the form of asshole-ish behavior.

I remember when I started junior high 35 years ago (ugh!) I was terrified. The entire summer before I was sick with fear, dread and so much anxiety that I had trouble sleeping and was nauseated most of the time. My teacher the year before had drilled into us how hard and different junior high was going to be, she made it seem like we were going to be going directly to college instead of 7th grade. We were going to have insane amounts of homework heaped upon us, expectations of us would be exponentially more difficult, we’d only have four minutes to change classes and they would be located 3 miles apart (don’t even think about going to your locker or the bathroom)…and worst of all, we would have to change and shower in front of our peers for gym class!

But after the first few days, I found out that my teacher was basically full of crap, and junior high wasn’t nearly as bad as she had made it out to be. Sure, it was a change and a little confusing at first, but it was a good thing. I wasn’t stuck in the same classroom with the same idiots and same cranky teacher day after day, hour after hour. I began feeling more grown up and started gaining a bit of confidence…which was immediately snuffed out by hellacious adolescent peers who still live in my nightmares to this day. (That’s a post for another time.) Best of all, we did not have to shower after gym class. We all quickly learned how to do strange contortions with our clothing so that the least amount of skin and underwear showed, doused ourselves with Wild Musk perfume and and Tickle deodorant and called it a day.

Is there a pedagogical reason why some teachers put the fear of God into their students to prepare them for the rigors of the next step in their schooling? I get that students need to understand that expectations will be higher and things will be different than what they are used to. But so often what is lost in translation for the student is that all the work they have been doing and the skills their teachers have been teaching them are what makes them prepared for the next step. Instead, so many (like in my case) are left feeling overwhelmed and terrified that they aren’t ready and are going to fail miserably.

I get it. When I get frustrated when First Born’s immaturity peaks out sometimes, I find myself saying things like, “You need to get more organized and on top of things! In sixth grade you won’t have your teacher holding your hand all the time! BE RESPONSIBLE!” Instead of getting him to shape up, I’m sure I’m just adding fuel to the fire of his anxiety of not feeling ready, mature or smart enough. Don’t get me wrong. I know this is going to be a big change for him and there are going to be some pretty big potholes along the way. But I need to keep my anxiety in check so I don’t add to his.

So next time he’s acting like a total beast and feel like ripping his head off and using it as a bowling ball, I need to remind myself to pull him in for a hug instead of yelling. Maybe it will help to ease the anxiety for both of us.

To my fellow parents sending their kids back to school: congratulations! You made it through another summer! And to those teachers going back to the grind and craziness of the classroom, good luck, God speed…and have mercy on my inmates! Just remember: I am their mother, and they can’t help a lot of it.

 

 

Pausing for the Funeral Procession

Yesterday as I was driving through town to take the inmates to their eye doctor appointments, a funeral procession came to the intersection where I was stopped. I pulled over and waited for them all to pass.

But while I was waiting there, multiple cars went around me and continued on their way, either oblivious to, not caring about or annoyed with the somber string of cars with their flashing lights. It saddened me and made me angry.

Later I went home and looked up the law on what you are supposed to do when you come upon a funeral procession. You are not allowed to cut through or cut off a funeral procession, nor should you honk (one would think this should go without saying.) But you are not required to pull over as a funeral procession goes by, it is merely a custom that so many seem to forget more and more often.

While I had somewhere to be and things to do, it was still important for me to take the time to acknowledge the mourners passing by. Even though I did not know the person in the hearse or their loved ones following behind, I took the time to respect their grief. This was not a trundling, never-ending train carrying lumber or coal from point A to point B. No, this was a long line of people accompanying their loved one to his or her final resting place. A few minutes of my time to respectfully pause and bear witness to the loss these people were suffering really seemed the least I could do.

This was a good reminder for me though. How many times have I impatiently waited in line while lost in thought with all the little things I need to get done, plan dinner, get who when and where, instead of bothering to have a nice chat with a fellow shopper who could use a kind word in that moment? How often have I wasted time scrolling through Facebook to keep up with what friends are doing instead of actually calling them to meet for coffee to really see how their life is? How many times have I obsessively read news article after news article, yet never seem to do enough with my outrage over the treatment of my fellow humans near and far.

We all need to be reminded to pause

…To pause and notice what is going on around us.
…To pause and care more for our family and friends.
…To pause and ask ourselves, “Am I doing enough, loving enough, giving enough?”
…To pause and really appreciate the amazing gifts we have been given in our lives
…To pause to just breathe and take it all in.

Perhaps if we all pause in our daily lives, our world can become a kinder, gentler place while we are still in it, before we become the one in the hearse, or become the mourners following behind.

What I DON’T Want for Mother’s Day

Dearest Husband,

In case you haven’t noticed, Mother’s Day is coming up. (It’s Sunday, May 12th in case you’ve been living in a hole, and that better not give you license to make snide comments about my housekeeping habits.) Inevitably you will ask me what I want. *Groan* Really? Can’t you be just a little bit creative? Fine. While anything in a little blue box wrapped up with a white bow is always appreciated, it’s not necessarily things that I want — It’s more experiences that will bring me joy.

Now wait a hot minute! Before you crank out some lame coupon book from the inmates with free hugs and doing the dishes and other malarkey and call it a day, listen to me. Granted, I’m all about hugs and getting out of doing the dishes, but why do I have to go dig out a coupon book any time I would like these things done? And most likely when I do actually find said coupon book, I’m going to end up getting attitude or eye-rolling and that just sucks the fun out of it all.

Instead, my love, I give you what Nurse Ratched does NOT want for Mother’s Day:

  1. Breakfast in bed: Hell to the no. I know it seems all decadent and fancy, but NO. Here’s what will happen: fighting, spills, crumbs and an enormous mess in the kitchen for me to clean up. All things I loathe. You know as well as I do, the inmates will fight over who gets to push the toaster button and burn my toast, what kind of jam I want, who gets to pour the OJ and bring up the tray. I will hear all of this fighting nonsense from my cozy bed, and it will cancel out any “sleeping in” or “relaxing” it was supposed to provide. And then they will inevitably drip coffee or juice all the way up the stairs and down the hall. Then when they deliver the tray, still fighting, they will set it down and proceed to jump on the bed, spilling everything all over. Then they will eat the breakfast for me and make crumbs. Oh goody. Now I get to change the sheets and wash all of the bedding. And how about they just don’t touch my food period — I’ve seen how those animals “wash” their hands. Gross. I’m not going to even go into the epic mess they will have left in the kitchen for me.
    Instead, how about this, Dear Husband: Wake up a bit early (and not after hitting snooze 4 times, because that’s gonna get you throat punched by yours truly.) Quietly go downstairs and make coffee. While it’s brewing, quietly wake up the inmates and hustle them out to the car, then bring a piping hot carafe of coffee and set it quietly on my bedside table whilst I slumber. Then take the inmates out for breakfast. Please be gone for at least three hours. Take them to the park, the zoo, the movies…ANYTHING! I just want a few hours in the house to myself with nothing that needs to get done, except for me to sleep, drink coffee, mess around on my phone and take a long, uninterrupted shower. And if the inmates were a bunch of jerks the whole time you were gone, I don’t want to hear about it. Plaster a fake smile on your face and pretend it was more fun than should be allowed by law. Don’t harsh my mellow with tales of hateful behavior.
  2. Gift Certificate for a spa getaway: Now don’t get me wrong, I LOVE the idea of a spa getaway. But by giving me a gift certificate, you’ve basically just created more work for me, and the less likely it’s gonna happen. I’m the one who will have to schedule it, make reservations, find a sitter and make decisions on where to go and what to do. You know. Do the all the stuff I do every day for everyone?? By the time it gets around to actually going to the spa, half the joy has been canceled out by having to arrange it all.
    Instead, my intelligent and resourceful Husband, do a little research and do the planning for me! You have access to my calendar (which has everyone’s whereabouts every single minute of the day) and to my contacts with all the best babysitters if needed. Set it up. Block off my calendar, book the spa services (massage, facial and mani/pedi please) and just tell me where I need to be when. I’m getting goose bumps just thinking about the whole idea!
  3. Mother’s Day brunch: Nope. Hard pass. I know you’re thinking, “But that way you won’t have to cook and you can have a nice meal!” True, but the thought of going to a crowded nice restaurant with the surly inmates in tow is giving me hives just thinking about it. You know First Born will be devouring every dessert in sight while picking on Young Son who will be grumpy if there is not a sufficient flow of breakfast meats. Warrior Princess will most likely be the best behaved of the group, but she can be a wild card. Keep this whole idea for when they are grown up and no longer living with us. It will be far more pleasant for all involved.
    Instead, pick up some nice carry out and bring it home. Serve it on paper plates, I don’t care. Just so long as I don’t have to clean it up! You chose the place and what to order and take care of the details. Having one day a year without having to plan what goes into everyone’s stomach and then clean up afterward is a dream come true.

For bonus points, if I can get through the day without having to touch any bodily fluid — pee, poop, puke, blood, sweat, tears — I will be a happy girl. Better yet, if they are involved, clean it up, shove the inmates in the tub and toss in a load of laundry while you’re at it.

I know all of this sounds very demanding and selfish, and I guess it is. But if you truly want to give me a wonderful Mother’s Day, give me a day off of being a mother. The best gift I’ve ever received has been the family we’ve created together. I’d just like one day off from it. Most importantly, just acknowledge that you all appreciate what I do and how much I love you all. That’s the best present of all.

The Scariest Moment of Truth

For some irrational reason, as a mom it’s always easiest to put your own needs on the back burner while you attend to everyone else. Kids get the new wardrobes, the best piece of pie and are always up-to-date on their dental visits, vaccinations and so on. I’m the one with the 5 year old underwear, the grilled cheese that got overdone on one side, and when was the last time I went to the doctor for a check-up other than when I was pregnant? Ummm. Well… Yeah. It was time to get a mammogram.
Last week I finally mommed up and went in for the big squish. After having birthed three babies, it wasn’t the worst form of having people all up in my personal space, but it was probably right up there. But as with childbirth, you pretty much get to the point where modesty with medical professionals is long gone. Just because this is my blog and I write about “inappropriate” things, I’ll share with you my experience. Some of you will appreciate it, some may be educated by it and others mortified. Whichever it is, you’re welcome.

When I arrived at the hospital they checked me in, had me gown-up and showed me to the special waiting room with other women who were also anticipating the fun to begin. You don’t really make eye contact when you walk in — it’s not like a spa lounge where you’re looking forward to a relaxing massage, a facial and some essential oils. No, these women weren’t thrilled about being there either, and I stopped to think that some of them may be there because they’ve already been through some dark times. I pushed that thought far out of my mind. Puppies and kittens…
They finally called my name and I was ushered back to a dimly lit room with The Machine humming away menacingly on the other side of the room. (Puppies and kittens…) The tech asked me some medical history questions, noticed my age and said, “I’ve been doing this the same amount of time as you’ve been alive.” Oh good. This wasn’t her first rodeo.
Then she lead me over to The Machine, and I had to stand in front of it like my dance partner in gym class when we were going to learn the waltz. “Now come closer and put your hand here.” Then she unceremoniously heaved my boob up on this cold platform like a slab of meat at the butcher shop. (I was officially not feeling pretty at that moment.) Then the fun really began as she hit the gas pedal at her foot and a clear plastic plate came down and smooshed the top of my meat sack until my chuck roast looked like flank steak. “Uhh. You can stop now!” It actually wasn’t so much painful as uncomfortable and really, really weird.
The tech repositioned me in other various contortions, took the images she needed and was done. In my case, since I was having a diagnostic mammogram done (just to be safe) it was followed up by an ultrasound. It was just like getting an ultrasound when I was pregnant, but sadly I didn’t get to look in excited anticipation at my sweet cherub dancing around in my uterus. Then things got a bit scary when she highlighted an area she saw and took a measurement of a blob — and it wasn’t to see if my baby’s head was growing at the proper rate. I thought, “Okay. Don’t panic yet.”
After she was done, the radiologist looked at the images and came into the room. He told me there was a spot that could just be a cyst or a benign fibroadenoma, but he wanted to be sure and have a biopsy done just to be safe. “Usually two times out of three it’s nothing.” (Did he realize that’s only 66.6%? Not exactly awesome odds if I were a betting type of person.)
I was led into another room and a nurse asked me some more medical questions, explained the procedure to me and looked at her schedule. Conveniently there was an opening the next day at 9:15 AM, otherwise it would be the following Thursday. I decided to get it over with scheduled it for the next day. She agreed that was a good choice. What did that mean? Did she know something they weren’t telling me? It was probably nothing…
I asked her if I could drive myself after the procedure or if I needed my husband to drive me. She said it was up to me, but as long as I didn’t have a history of fainting it would be okay. “But I’d bring my husband if I were you. He needs to support you.” Uhhh…I just thought this was a simple biopsy. Then I thought about my husband’s absolute loathing of hospitals and decided to just go on my own instead of having to worry about him stoically simmering in the waiting room. I’m a tough mother after all, you know.
The next morning I got up, poured myself a well-deserved cup of coffee and savored the last moments of calm in my house before I had to roust the inmates. Then my friend called my cell from my driveway, “Is First Born not going to early band this morning?” I looked down at the time. ARGH!! I totally forgot! How could I forget about band, even after we’d arranged carpool the evening before??! I guess I was a bit more preoccupied with the procedure than I even let on to myself. I apologized and woke up the inmates and got their day started.
I shoved them on their respective busses after the usual excessive morning drama and headed over to the hospital. I figured I may as well be early for once in my life. Of course they were not on time, and they took me back for my procedure a half hour late. Figures. I went through the whole gowning process again and was led into the room. As I was lying there being prepped, the nurse brought over the consent form on a clip board for me to sign in my prone position. “I’m sorry this is sort of awkward to write like this,” she says.
I gesture to my boob hanging out with a spotlight shining on it. “Uhh, like this whole deal isn’t awkward?? Signing something while lying down is nothing.” Polite laughter.
They explained the procedure once again. The doctor numbed the area, the ultrasound tech confirmed the location and he jabbed a needle in, fired it like a staple gun a few times to take the samples and he was done. It didn’t hurt at all. He informed me that the pathology will be back early next week, and I’d get a call from them.
The nurse held pressure on the site and asked me how I was doing. “I’m fine. That was no big deal at all.” She seemed slightly surprised and continued to hold pressure on the site. It got awkward. Finally she put an ice pack on it and took me over to another office to wait for the follow-up mammogram to be sure the marker they placed showed up. (Yes. You read that right. Another mammogram.)
The nurse was the most adorable pregnant woman you ever saw. She was the type that looked like she had a basketball shoved under her scrubs. I found out she was due any day, and I was astounded how she was still vertical and on her feet all day long. She was going to be a first time mom, and it was nice to talk with someone at the most exciting time in her life — so full of hope and anticipation, with a tinge of nervousness. For her, motherhood was still a perfectly blissful thing, and her happiness was contagious. As I write this, I’m wondering if she’s had her baby yet and if she’s spending hours and hours just staring at the miracle that has just come into her life. I hope it’s perfect.

It was a long wait over the weekend, and I sort of felt like Schrödinger’s cat. Is it malignant? Benign? It felt like both. Meow. Luckily to keep my mind off of it, I got to travel to a family wedding with my mom and Warrior Princess (with no stinky boys!) It felt like a girls’ weekend, and it was rejuvenating to be able to finally spend some time away with my mom. Times like these are when a girl really needs her mom, because she’s the only one who can make you feel better. Being at a wedding filled with love and happiness helped too.
Finally the call came: it was a benign fibroadenoma. It’s an odd feeling, when you’ve been preparing yourself for bad news and then it comes out just fine. I stopped to think about all the other women who didn’t receive such great news from their doctor, and it was extremely sobering. Yet another thing in my life I need to be more grateful for.

So long story not so short, I’m fine. It’s been a good wake-up call to be more on top of my wellbeing. Maybe this has helped someone else get up the courage to do something that’s not so pleasant but very needed. You can do it. Mom up.