April 2009 Archives

I cropped this and made it black & white for the weaker viewers. It's exactly what you think it might be. You're welcome.

Utie Rose came into this world on Tuesday, April 28, at approximately 8:35 central time. She's resting peacefully in a pathology bucket at the lab. She is described as being about 8 ounces, and spongey. For the record, and because you KNOW I asked my doctor, typically, a good uterus is "firm" not spongey.

I did my best to harass pre-op and post-op recovery people. The fun thing about when you come out of a surgery like that, they HAVE to listen to you. So, I had a good performance from what I hear. My doctor said so. Hey, I'm just trying to make the world a funner place, even in the stirrups.

Proud momma is resting well at home now.

I'm a little upset that I don't have my magic button of morphine, nor a button to push when I needed ANYTHING, to eat, for drugs, even to go pee. Now THAT is a powerful button.

While at the hospital, I was shocked at how many different nurses come and go. Could be the morphine, but seemed like there was a Charge Nurse, a nurse-nurse, a resident doctor, a student nurse and some lab guy on occasion. On top of that, they all change shifts and really, all that matters is that I got my morphine, percocet and diet sprite in a timely manner. At the beginning of my room stay, my first nurses came in and made me roll over, needed to check something or other, I'm guessing the spinal tap or something. Anyways, I'm all drugged up and the nurse loves my new tattoo!

"Oh, well let me tell you all about it!" In my head, it sounded like a beautiful poem, three best friends, Carrie died, the tat is a promise...Carrie watches over Yallison & Leslie. But outloud, with the spinal tap, and now the awesome morphine drip, must have been horrific, because I don't think I saw those ladies again. NEXT!

And then, my 7a-7p shift, my charge nurse came in. And her name was Carrie. And after all of those nurse changes, just seemed like Carrie was my constant. She took such good care of me, and hugged me when I left.

I texted Yallison, "My nurse is named Carrie." Because Yallison is the only one who would understand my desperate attempt to cling to any coincidences or signs from our girl. She wrote me back, "She's your guardian angel!"

To which I wrote back, "Well my guardian angel just took my catheter out. I heart her."

Interesting things that happened while I was there:
1. Everytime a baby is born, they blare Kenny G's version of Lullabye on the entire hospital speaker system. I loved it. Just such a sweet and precious reminder when you're barfing up your meds after having your uterus removed.
2. I was on the oncology floor. Not cool, folks. And when they made me walk the floor, I only felt a little bit of guilt when I lapped the other hospital robed walkers.
3. Today, I guess there was a fire on the third floor. Thank God I wasn't on the second floor where I was supposed to be initially, and I got to lap those oncology patients. You know what they do when there is a fire? They shut your door.
4. 2 percocet + 1 hospital big ass pill of motrin + empty stomach at 4a.m. = leslie carrying a barf bucket with her everywhere she goes.

It's 5 o'clock - bedtime.
That's how I roll.

As you read this, I'm high as a kite on the serious narcotics. Some people have drug dealers, other people huff. I have an anesthiologist, and I'm not afraid to admit it.

I've explained to my doctor that this is replacement of a trip to Mexico, so she better make it good. So, she said I'll probably need to stay TWO nights instead of one. I love that woman.

I'm going in for the PROCEDURE. I like to say it just like that, real slow and loud: PRO SEE JUR! Or gesture at my abdomen area and then use quote fingers and say, "I'm having a little work done."

I've actually told some passers-by,(the mailman, a couple of neighbors, everyone at the gym, all of facebook, and a priest) that I'm having work done just to see the look of disappointment when they see me out again and realize that indeed, it was not a boob job, they are eye level and gawking, and there's nothing there. I'm looking for that. About the time they start to squint, I'll explain. Effing friends should keep up with the blog, right?

The other day I went to the hospital to do my pre-op registration stuff. It's at a different hospital than my other PROCEDURE that sparked this whole new adventure. As I'm driving out, I notice, the hospital is surrounded by a cemetery. Should I be worried? I'm guessing not, because as I rounded a corner, I notice it's the Arch Diocese Cemetery. Translation for the protestants: A cemetery for the really good Catholics. So, certainly I don't qualify, it's all safe.

I just told Ricardo, "If I die, Max has library books due next week."

Still, I'll say a Hail Mary. Please do the same, or say your own shout out for me and my family.

That's how I roll.

I've just downloaded some Flight of the Conchords. So, I'll go with the fact that they sold me on business cards. Not really the same message of what I'm going for here, but still, worthy of mentioning.

When I was a working woman -stop laughing, y'all - I always got a kick out of business cards. Maybe it's because I was apparently really bad at what I did, or something. Nah, I'll go with underappreciated. Still, to me, business cards were silly. Perhaps it's because email works. At each job, I was greeted on my first day with business cards. And at each job when I left, I left the same amount of business cards, maybe one or two less, I sent some to my parents to impress them like that. I never handed out business cards to "network" when I actually had a job.

But that's all you do as a Mommy is network. Well, that and change diapers, chauffeur, make sandwiches, potty train, teach valuable lessons of responsibility, laundry, cook, make sure they brush their teeth without skimping, clean up the bathroom from the pool of water from the summer fun they had in January, mop, get your HAZMAT suit on to clean their room and bathrooms, supervise homework, eventually eat, feed kids, and so on.

So, when you do meet a mom, while each of you are chasing kids, typically, a pen and paper is not in the diaper bag. And "Hey, Facebook search me!" isn't quite yet socially acceptable.

No one on the earth needs business cards more than mommies. Moms are the only ones with not enough time nor steady hands to write a number down. They are too busy So, it just makes sense that they have business cards to exchange at the park. And yes, the park is where we go to meet other hot moms. That, or the school parking lot, but it's recommended that you have kids in the school of the parking lot of which you are attending. Just throwin that disclaimer out there.

I've always said we need business cards. My JulzHOLLA! had some and handed them all out. Proving my theory that paid professionals don't need them. Mommies do. I like that I can set the tone for anonymity if needed. It's like tweeting, or facebook status. Just put your core message on there and an email address. "Email me!" Because all Mommies know the golden rule of children, "Thou shalt not get on the phone if you want anything accomplished while kids are around." So far, the kids can't interrupt an email or an instant message. So, I finally, I ordered some business cards for myself! What I like about them is I feel so professional, like I'm in a 3 month probationary hold with being a mom. I wonder if I'll run out. Hmmm.

That's how I roll.

Maybe it's due to the weather warming up. Maybe now, kids are coming off of a winter, locked in their homes with older potty-mouthed siblings. Or maybe the kids' parents don't have kid-dar like I do and cuss like sailors in front of their kids fluently while being locked up in the house during a good Omaha Winter.

Now, it seems, when it rains, it pours with daily with issues like what we now refer to as naughty poop, that 6-year olds don't use the word "sexy", and now this.

Max and Lucy's dialogue is fun to just sit and listen to. Ricardo and I have been waking up to the hillarity of 6-year-old conversation lately. I was trying to get my fix, and listen in one afternoon, when I noticed, it was pretty muffled. Then a pause in the conversation, and then Max comes flying around the corner,

"MOM! SOPHIA RAISED HER MIDDLE FINGER IN SCHOOL TODAY, AND THAT MEANS SHE HATES GOD. BECAUSE AUBREY SAID SO!"

Whoa, whoa, whoa...Mommy raises her middle finger all the time, and she loves God very much.

Or what I really did was I explained what flipping someone off means: It's a really mean and silly way to say you hate someone. Thankfully, they both gasped at the thought of using the word "Hate" so they haven't been desensitized completely to all their new found knowledge of cuss words and now, a new level - sign language.

And then I explained (being the awesome Master of Arts in Communication that I am) that it's better to talk it out, and use good words than to flip someone off. Then I explained that hating God and disrespecting God's wishes is not a good choice. And that when someone is mean to another human being it makes God sad, but it's not because they hate God per se. What I'm getting at is, I kept talking until their eyes begged me to stop.

As soon as I could pause to take a breath - and I can go a very long time - Lucy asked if she could have a popsicle and Max asked if I would come outside to play baseball. Yes and yes.

I'm getting pretty good at this.

That's how I roll.

I have a very overdue hair appointment on Friday. The last time I got my awesome hair stylist to cut my hair, I wanted it pretty short. But I think she's afraid to cut it too short, seeing as how I'm double her size, and I'm loud. I might yell. I think that's what she thinks anyways.

My hair stylist had the nerve to go off and have a BABY, leaving me and my roots to grow out and my hair to grow into unshapeliness. So, I'm a little excited to get to her, get my hair done, oh yeah, and meet the baby!

But I've had this hair cut a long time. If there's one thing I have a problem with commitment over, it's hair. I like to mix it up. And although the A-Line Bob seems to be holding it's own on my head, still, I like to mix it up. I don't want to go back to blonde, and finally got a little tint of red in there. It's Ricardo's least favorite hue of the three I stick to: Natural Poo Brown with Grey highlights, Blonde, or Auburn.

I've been threatening to get it cut short. It's just hair, right? It'll grow back. The problem with me, a 6'3" flat-chested, deep-voiced, blue-jeans wearing, former athlete gettin her hair cut short is I get concerned I'll look like a man. And not even a feminine man. Just a man, baby! It doesn't help that I get my makeup on my face about 50% of the week, and when I don't wear makeup, I just might resemble a crack head with dark circles under my eyes, and blemishes all while sporting an Elmer's glue white hue under the freckles, blemishes and dark circles. It's really impressive. Thank God I have fantastic teeth, and all of them to throw people off the "Is she really a Crack Head" wagon of concern.

So, maybe the short haircut idea isn't the best idea. The A-Line Bob is sleek and super. But I WANNA MIX IT UP! So, I keep coming up with stuff like this:

Still, Ricardo says no. Then he stops himself and says, "Why do you even ask me? You're just going to cut it anyways."

He's pretty right on.

So, the other day, JulzHOLLA! and I went to visit our fantastic pal, Nikki, the cake-making DIVA. Nikki just had a beautiful baby boy! And we had to stalk, woops, I mean visit her and the baby. So, while we're there with the, "He's so sweet!" and all that, I figured I'd do a quick poll. I pulled my hair back and try to assimilate my idea for my short haircut.

"I'm thinking of getting my hair cut short. Something like this. What do you think?"

To which Nikki replied, "I had a baby pulled from my body like 6 hours ago, who gives a naughty poop about your hair?"

Just kidding. She didn't say that, but if she had, it would have been more than appropriate. What the hell am I doing talking about hair while visiting to see her baby? It's her third, I guess it's semi-appropriate conversation.

Anyways, I pulled my hair back and showed them and Nikki's mom looked at me funny and said, "I kind of like it like it is now."

That's no good, because it's out of shape because it's all grown out.

And then JulzHOLLA! said, "It's kinda cute. You know, you look just like your Mom like that."

Okay, I'm out. I'll keep it long. I love my mom, but I'm not ready to look like her yet. That's all I needed to hear. Maybe I should get more bangs...

That's how I roll.

Last week, Lucy came bounding out of school with sheer glee and three other girls following her. They wanted to show me their new hand jive. It was pretty cute, because they were all four just slapping their knees, then clapping their hands and then instead of slapping hands with another girl, they all just mushed their hands all together in a pile of painted first grader nails. So cute.

What was that they just said?

"Elvis Presley
Sittin in the back seat" UH OH, this can't end good.
"Sippin on a Pepsi" Oh, whew, okay, that's better than I thought.

Then the all huddled together and whispered something.

The best part of the whole thing was the grand finale where they all chest bump each other. Brilliant!

Later I asked Lucy what they whispered. She had to back track to remember the exact lingo,
"Elvis Presley, Sittin in the back seat, Sippin on a Pepsi, Thinkin girls are sexy."

OH NO YOU DID NOT JUST SAY SEXY! Ewww.

Now, I realize that sexy is not a bad word. But you go have your 6-year-old daughter say it. Go on. Then have her sing it in a song. Gross. So, I told Lucy, real cool like, to come up with a better word because sexy was not appropriate.

"Well, what does it mean, Mom?"

"Well, Lucy, when two people love each other very much, they have sex. And when girls try to look sexy for Elvis Presley, it means they want to have sex with him."

Just kidding. I didn't say that. I try to be so honest with these kids. And I will tell them about the sounds they hear in our bedroom, one day. And, I'm fairly realistic that THAT talk will be necessary sooner than later. But unless the kids catch us, the deadline for THAT conversation is realistically closer to 8-10 years-old. Don't you think?

So, I just explained that it was inappropriate for a 6-year-old to use that word at all, and that they should just come up with a different word that still keeps it fun. As I type, I realize that she probably went back to school, explained what I told her, and then the ringleader of that little gang probably came up with her own explanation of sexy and Elvis Presley. Ugh.

I'm stuck. And I'm not beating myself up about this one because I explained "shit" fantastically.

So, how do you explain sexy to a 6-year-old? Help!

That's how I roll.

Today, we had one of Max's friends come over. He's a sweet kid with a lot of uh, spunk. High energy.

He also never eats here. I don't know if it's because I make "weird" stuff. Hey, some kids are totally into snake eyeball pita's with a basil & lemon dressing. But whatever. Or maybe he's never hungry. We're two days out from going to the grocery store and I like to use all resources up before I go. So, we're getting down to the basics of all resources. Still, if this kid is a picky eater, I'll get him with some carbs and cheese. He strikes me as the processed food-lovin type if you know what I mean. Not that there's anything wrong with that...

So, I served up saltines with American cheese and orange slices on the side. (Tried to sneak in some healthy fruitness there.) I made two separate little plates for them. And put them on the table. Max sat down to eat. Friend did not. Instead friend said something like, "Hey, let's go outside."

To which Max- the nicest, most sensitive coolest kid in all the land - replied, "WHEN MY MOM MAKES US A SNACK WE SIT DOWN AND EAT IT!"

Oh my God. This kid is now officially my favorite kid.

After we dropped friend off later, I reminded Max of what he said. I looked back at him and thanked him for sticking up for me. Kinda made a big deal about it, he gave me knuckles and stuff. He had the biggest grin of pride on his face.

Then I suggested that a more polite way of saying it would be something like, "Perhaps we should sit down and eat this snack my beautiful mom took precious time to make for us and then go out and play."

Long pause and his smile started to fade. So, I just said, "NAHHHH, You said it just right, son." And he reached out and gave me knuckles again.

That's how I roll.

We didn't even need a card from Gramma this year to remind us that it was our wedding anniversary. Which, since none of you lame-o's remembered, if you're feeling guilty and all, I've taken the liberty to do the research. The traditional gift is Bronze. The modern gift for lucky numero ocho is linens. Which I find amusing, because I've got my linens from our wedding now. Perhaps 8 years is a good indicator to re-stock my linens. Good point anniversary-theme-establisher guy. Good point.

We spent our anniversary hunting for Arches in Moab, Utah. You know. Those pretty red sandstone arches that make incredible photographs. In every photograph I've seen, it looks like they are in the flat desert land. Oh no, in carrying on our forced-theme, indeed, you pay to get into the park - the lowest point of the place and a mere 4000 ft. elevation (yes, I just checked) - slightly shy of that Mile Highness. And then trek your car straight up the side of a mountain and climb climb climb. The highest point, I'm sure we didn't make it to, but we got close, is 5,600 ft. And nothing says Elevation like U2 or the cyclists we saw - and maybe just a little pointed and laughed at it - but just a little bit. What a climb!

Also, you have to park, and get out and walk to these Arches. Why I thought we could just drive through like a safari, I don't know. But we went with it. I was pretty proud of myself for not making the family find every single Arch. We took our time, and I took all my pictures, and we had fun. The kids, after the Grand Canyon, then the river rafting ride, weren't really impressed that erosion over 300 million years made these incredible perfectly sculpted arches. They spotted a lizard at the first stop. And from that moment on, I hunted Arches, the kids hunted lizards. Everyone was happy.

Once we walked a trail and came up on an Arch, the kids were proportionally awed as they were with the Grand Canyon. For the Grand Canyon, it was about 10 minutes of glee. The Arches, probably 2 minutes. And then off to find more lizards.

I'm not sure what's more impressive about the Arches Park, the very fact that just like the Grand Canyon, you can not conceive the enormity of these Arches unless you're standing in front of them, or the abrupt change in landscaping. There's mountains, then moonrock mounds, then red sandtone peaks. I tried to get it all here:

I'm no geologist, or anything -ist, actually, but it's simply amazing.

After all that, we headed toward home - to Denver. We stayed with one of my all-time favorite peeps: Coach. I'm still hoping it's not some kind of NCAA violation for Lucy to play for Coach, but we'll see. On our way to Denver, what with it being our anniversary and all that time in the car to talk about our feelings, Ricardo and I discovered something about each other that we never knew before. Eight years married, and he never knew I crossed my sevens. And it turns out he crosses his zeroes.

We probably never would have known, or maybe noticed such a trivial detail about each other had we not battled 2,000 (out of a total 2,700) miles of mountain passes. Did you know that the entire state of Colorado on I-70 is mountain passes? Neither did we, until we drove it.

I decided how Denver was settled. The westward movers got to those mountains, and said, "Eff that Bob. We're opening up shop right here." Our drive home on the last day was relief, because everything east of Denver is flat. Nothing makes you appreciate home more than a long road trip. God bless our flat, low elevation, Midwest, football freakshow, miles and miles of cornfields home.

If I had it to do again, I sure would. The kids would too. it was worth every barf bucket and dollar spent. I really think we did it right. I highly recommend it.

That's how we roll.... 2,700 miles at a time.

Did you know the elevation at the South Rim of the Grand Canyon is 7,500 feet? Neither did I. What's the big woop with "Mile High City" when everything west of it in this trip is higher? So, even if I plummeted to my death in the Grand Canyon, it's a mile deep, I'd still be above sea level, right? Interesting.

I say all of this because at some point between the Grand Canyon and Page, AZ, Ricardo began to suffer altitude sickness. When we came down from the mountains, we really didn't lower our elevation one bit. And I was a wee bit, uh, insensitive to his headache and nausea, shall we say, until we all woke up with headaches the next day. We fought it with a box of allergy meds, a bottle of ibuprofen and lots of water.

Page, AZ, it turns out is home to the southern part of Lake Powell as well as the Glenn Canyon Dam, and the location of the river rafting trip on the Colorado I was forcing our family to go on.

And pause for a brief river rafting history with Leslie. It'll establish a great deal about my psyche later on for CPS or whoever to use for my insanity plea.

When I was a kid, my parents, who didn't really get along so well decided to take me and my way-older sister canoeing, down a river...with rapids. We went with my uncle and aunt. And my way-older sister was way older and smarter and chose, asked, begged to ride in the canoe with my uncle and aunt. I got to ride between my parents, you know the ones who hash out their marriage while partnering in a "friendly" game of Spades in front of the whole family?

"If you would just stop and think...."

"Well, I led you dumb jerk, how about you follow my lead for once you effn fatty. And then maybe do something around this house besides shit and eat."

You know, fun stuff like that. So, by all means, let's take your already rocky relationship, literally put your daughter in the middle of you two, add paddles, and rough waters but not call Dr. Phil or anything rational like that.

Ten minutes into the canoe ride, they argued, flipped the canoe, and sent me and the beer cooler floating down the river. And what has only been rationalized up to this point by my very sensitive late father was, "Well, you had a life jacket on and the beer cooler didn't." Thank you very much, Daddy. The only thing my parents agreed on that day was to save the beer. To their defense, they did get me, and then have me hold on to a tree limb while they hunted beer cans in the river. But remember, there was rapids. So, I didn't last long, and I went floating down the river again. "I told you to hang on to that damned tree!" Thanks for the save, assholes. You know who you are!

So, no, I don't like unmotorized boating. I'm not a fan of putting a choice in front of my loved ones: me or the booze? And I don't really appreciate the rolling beauty of water over the rapids unless I'm listening from a safe distance in a hammock, over dry land.

When researching all the activities at the Grand Canyon, I wanted to do something fun and cool. Riding mules might seem like a great idea to the very same people who would drink and canoe, but not so much with me. Ricardo is so tall, he's over the weight limit....wait for it...you with me? And it takes 3 hours to ride on the mules, whilst our feet drag - you gotta add that in - and the trails are "narrow" no potty stops for anyone but the mules, with twin 6-year-olds. Hmmmm.

We could fly over the Grand Canyon. The cheapest for the four of us was $1,000. And really, do you really want the cheapest pilot you can find to fly you over the Grand effn Canyon? I think not.

Lo, I found the river rafting tour. I laughed when I read about it. But this is a SMOOTH river raft. No rapids? Really? What, a motorized rafty-boat thingy? Then it occurred to me that the kids could see the Grand Canyon from above, and then ride the Colorado River and see the Canyon from below. How cool is that? VERY!

It was probably the most educational and impressive tour for all four of us. I highly recommend it. Technically, it runs you through the Glenn Canyon, but it's still impressive. They drive you THROUGH the Canyon, down a mile into the big ol Glen Canyon Dam. You get on a boat and tour guide lets you hang your legs over the edge while he tells you all about the Anasazis, the wildlife, the geology. And we stopped at a sandy beach and ate a picnic lunch. So fun. The view from the river is so cool than from up top, I gotta say.

Tha't how I roll.

I'm getting emails, "You're so funny, but what about the Grand Canyon!? What did you think?" I think it's big, for one. But before I get to that, let me continue the delay for just a moment for this Mom On The Rocks public service announcement.

If you ever have the opportunity to drive through New Mexico, off the beaten path. Don't. We drove through towns and villages that reminded us of video and pictures of third world countries. And, we didn't have any kind of GPS system with us. I know, 2,700 miles and no GPS? What are we thinking? I suppose it's our version of roughing it. Fret not, Ricardo had access to the same system on his phone. Trouble is, you need phone service in the third world country known as "new" Mexico. Outside of the airport in Albuquerque, really, the entire state is a state of Tent City. Bill Richardson has some work to do. Maybe I'll write a letter.

Between that and coming out of the mountains with more winding and turning and up and down, I was depressed and nauseated. Oh thank God, there's I-40W! Whew! We made it to Flagstaff with minimal upheaval, and woke up to drive to the Grand Canyon. While I drove, the kids watched some show called Skunk Fu they got at a Red Box.

We developed a new road trip pit stop - stop at WalMarts. What, Leslie, weren't you just talking about third world countries and now you're stopping at WalMart? Yes, because what's lowlier than a WalMart bathroom? A convenience store bathroom. Ick. If you find a Walmart off the highway, they tend to be nicer. And we stopped, got a healthier snack than we would at a convenience store, went potty, and then got a movie at the Red Box. You can return them at any Red Box location, so it's the perfect roadtrip plan. And, the we get to get out and walk around a bit, even if it is at WalMart, it works.
SkunkFu is some cartoon. Sad to say, I didn't screen it. But while driving, I rocked out to the title sequence music. It's fun, I'm thinking of downloading it. So, the content can't be all that bad, right?

We stopped to get Max a knee brace. We put on a brave face for him knowing what he didn't, perhaps he blew out his knee, let's test it out while hiking in the Grand Canyon, and then after that, we'll consider a doctor. What's the litmus test for whether your six-year-old son having his own orthopedic surgeon anyways?

Ricardo wraps his knee in an ace bandage and we get on the road to the Grand Canyon. Twenty minutes later Max apologetically says,
"Uhm, Mom, I can't feel my foot."

I crawl back and unwrap the ace bandage. Max breathes in relief that indeed, there IS blood flowing back through his leg again.

Behold, we arrive at the Grand Canyon. We drove through a pretty thick national forest. So, it kind of makes it like Disney World when you're waiting in line, somehow they find a way to wind you through the lines all while hiding the destination for the surprise effect when you finally get on the ride. Driving through forest, and then BAM! A large large LARGE crack in the earth. A mile deep crack in the earth. So deep in fact, you can't see to the bottom. You THINK you can, and then you realize there's another canyon under that canyon. Whew!

The kids were ecstatic. Max's knee was suddenly fine. They were so excited, they were wiggling and dancing and singing and amazed. For about 10 minutes. Then it was, "It's just dirt, Mom." Well eff you kid. Put down that Grand Canyon shot glass and walk out of the gift shop, then. Brat.

Really, they thought it was cool. I made them take all the pictures they could handle, and we walked around, got all the right angles. We traded picture takings of the whole family with a family from New Jersey. After we left, the kids asked what country they were from. We had lunch and then explored more nature. The kids had fun spotting squirrels. And by "spotting" I mean, the squirrels know where the food is, they know nature and where to find the food...the Navajo Pretzel with processed cheese from the guy from New Jersey. They're like seagulls at the beach, I'm guessin.

I collect crosses from just about every trip we go on. So I looked for a cross at the Grand Canyon. But it turns out, the Native American community isn't much into Christ and the cross so much as peyote and turqoise. So, no cross for me.

We walked around some more, and then when the kids declared they did not want to hike into the canyon, not for one little bit, we said okay. I probably would have made them do it, appreciate every last bit of the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, however, I knew the next day we'd be looking at the canyon from down below in a river rafting tour, so I just went with it. We took them to a gift shop with their allotted allowance and let them pick something out and left. That was it.

We gave the kids a disposable camera each. It was cool to come back and see what they thought was picture worthy. Here's some of Max's interpretation of the canyon:

Here's Lucy's:

I'm impressed at what the Grand Canyon looks like through their eyes (cameras). In a few years, it'll be fun to go back to the Grand Canyon, and hike down to it. But for now, the first ten minutes took all of our breaths away. It was worth the drive for just that.

That's how I roll.

Check out those tiny skis!

In every family of roadtrippers, there's a role. And Lucy's role is barfing. We packed plenty of dramamine, but the problem of it is, we didn't catch it early enough. Everything past Denver was mountains. Very pretty from a plane or in pictures. Not so much when winding around and around and around. And up and down the hils. Up and down and around. The sun setting and flickering in their eyes between trees.

Thankfully, I packed the barf bowl. And thankfully I packed it in a strategic location able to keep driving, and reach back and give it to her. She held it up ready and waiting to deliver. For all my Omaha peeps in the house, it turns out, and I've tested out a bunch of options, that the bucket from the zoo kids' lunches works the best. Everything brilliantly planned. We gave her a dramamine, but we're still not sure if it made it through her system or if she barfed it up.

"Mommy I feel better now that I'm done barfing. Here." Handed me her bucket deposit and passed out. Maybe the dramamine did work. Who knows. The way she barfs, it's exhausting.

Eventually we made it to Sipapu, New Mexico. It's a very small ski hill. Supposedly, it's the best kept ski secret. And I'd like to keep it that way. I knew of Sipapu from my college days. Not so much the glory days as much as my other love, Leadership Conference. Every year we'd go on this retreat, we'd ski, and take the Meyers-Briggs test which predicted what career you'd be best suited for. After I had a good laugh with everyone else about the fact that mine came up with "Clergy" we'd all eat lunch and go ski. The ski part is basic and minimal. I like to ski slowly, on the greens only. Ahhh, the sound of the swish of the snow under my skis. Fresh quiet air. It really is a neat small mountain.

We get the kids checked into ski school. And Ricardo and I leave the kids with some stranger that may have been a ski instructor, or just a guy in a red jacket. I dunno. It was the last weekend the slopes were even open. And once I got to the top and headed down, really, they were pushing it with the "snow on the mountain, slopes open" thing. Did I mention that I haven't been skiing in 10 years? And really, that wasn't skiing. I skiied halfway down the mountain, rolled down another quarter of the mountain, and then proceeded to take my skis off and walk down the rest of the mountain. So, it's been awhile, and I'm cruising through ice and dirt with the tiniest skis I've ever seen. All the less to get tangled in the trees, I suppose. They weren't much bigger than the kids' skis. And they were perfect. I made it very cautiously down the hill a few times. I like to go nice and slow.

Once the kids were done with their ski lessons, we attempted to take them up the bunny slope. Lucy didn't quite make it up the Poma lift. So, I jumped off to help her and yelled up at Ricardo to stick with Max. I look down to see Lucy attempt and then fall. Then I look up and see Max flying down the hill, skis pointed straight down.

Ricardo shouts down to him, "SLOW DOWN!" So he did, face first.

It turns out, because I had lots of time to talk with Lucy while we cross-country skied because she was NOT going back on that ski lift, apparently, they didn't learn how to stop nor slow down in their ski class. Really? What the hell?

Max went back up with Ricardo a few times while I hung out with Lucy. About the same time Lucy decided she'd rather pet the resident St. Bernard (also named Lucy) than ski, I see Max limping and whaling. Turns out last dismount, he stuck his ski straight down into the snow, while his body kept rolling and twisting. Busted his knee.

We turned in the skis, got an ice pack, and got an early start to Flagstaff.

"Maybe we'll try again next year."

"Yeah, we can come back and pet Lucy the dog!"

We drive in peace and quiet - our mission was accomplished - we have worn our kids out emotionally and physically. Super.

I whisper, "Man, I thought 6-year-olds were more pliable than that."

"You should have seen it. It was impressive."

"More impressive than Lucy's barf?"

"Way more. How the hell are we hiking through the Grand Canyon tomorrow?"

That's how I roll. Downhill.

The first leg of our Griswold Roadtrip was our longest. We planned it that way because we are brilliant like that. 13 hours in the car. THIRTEEN. Somewhere between Ogalalla, Nebraska and Raton, New Mexico, we're cruising down the road, and I hear 16" from behind me, what I think Max says, "Shit." Almost in a whisper.

I turn to Ricardo, explain what I think I just heard. Perhaps he said "Ship" just one word like that. Maybe it was in a movie, because my baby would not say "shit". No he wouldn't. No he wouldn't. No he wouldn't! Ricardo suggests we'll just play it out and see if that's what he said or not. Just no worries. Seriously, Leslie. Calm the eff down. I have ruined my son's life with my shit-for-brains-trash-talk. I should wash my mouth out. I'm not fit to be a mother. I don't care if I use the F-word so cleverly. This is awful. AWFUL, I SAY! I've ruined him. But I've been so careful. I've had kid-dar. What the HELL HAPPENED!? About 2 minutes pass by. I'm still chanting to myself, "It was ship. It had to be ship. Calm down Leslie. Calm down Les..."

And then, very quitely Max, "Mom, Dad, what does S-H-I-T mean?"

He did say it! OMG! DAMMIT! UGGH!

"It's a very very inappropriate word for poop, hunny."

Pause. Pause. Pause.

"Uh, where did you hear that word sweetie?"

Please God, don't let it be me. Please don't let it be from that 1980's weed smoking campaign. Please don't let it be, "I LEARNED IT FROM YOU, MOM! I LEARNED IT FROM YOU!" Please God, seriously, don't let it be....

"Chase says it at school sometimes.

Oh thank you sweet baby Jesus. I've never been more relieved that a kid was cussing in school in all my life. This is the greatest news ever. God Bless Chase!

"Okay sweetie, well, it's not okay for Chase to say that. And you shouldn't use that word either okay? It's a very naughty word. If you said that at school and a teacher heard you, you'd probably go to the principal. It's that bad."

Lucy intervenes, "No, Mom. First you go to the Safe Seat, then if that doesn't work out, you go to another teacher's Safe Seat. Then if that doesn't work out, you miss recess and when recess is over, you have to sit back in the Safe Seat, and then after all that, then you go to the principal."

"Okay, that's good to know, Lucy. Max, my point is, just don't say it. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Lucy, you don't say it either. Okay?"

Pause.

"LUCY!"

"Okay, okay!"

Ricardo and I give each other a mental high-five and then share the silent and somewhat invisible giggle. You know, the one you try to hide from your kids. Ours were back to being enthralled in their movie. So, we were pretty in the clear.

"Mom, what does a-bomb-able mean?"

"Do you mean, abominable? Wow, I never thought of that. Uh, well...."

Then Ricardo explained it. He knew I was still recovering from some other shit.

That's how I roll.

We went to the Grand Canyon last week. But we did oh, so much more than that. I'd GoogleMapped and coordinated the mother of all road trips. My dad would have been so proud. We didn't stay in one place more than one night.
So, it went something like this:
Friday: Drive 13 hours to Sipapu, NM Ski Resort.
Saturday: Ski Sipapu (Pronounced: Sip-uh-pooh) It's a nice quaint hill that I discovered back in my college days. I'm not much of a skiier, so it was perfect for me as well as for the kids to learn to ski. After we ski, drive to Flagstaff, Arizona.
Sunday: Meet my sister and my nieces at the Grand Canyon - South Rim. Drop off furniture to sister and then, after oohing and ahhing at the spectacular canyon, and lunch ofcourse, head to Page, Arizona.
Monday: Page, Arizona, why? River rafting on the Colorado River in the Glen Canyon. View one canyon from the top, then from the bottom. Then drive to Moab, Utah.
Tuesday: Happy Anniversary at the Arches National Park. Drive to Denver, Colorado. Stay with my college coach, Debbie. And pray it's not some kind of NCAA violation for 11 years down the road because Lucy will play for her.
Wednesday - Breakfast with Coach Debbie and then drive home.
It's 2,700 miles.

Aren't you jealous?

All the hotels were booked. I did all the research on the South Rim, booked the River Rafting trip, Googlemapped every destination and we even figured out where we would stop for lunches and dinners.

We tried to prepare the kids that this was a lot of time in the car, and that we'd have fun at the destinations, as well as in the car.
And then we got just shy of "are we there yet?" with the ever better constant question of
"What town are we in now?"

"Lincoln, Max. We're in Lincoln, Nebraska. It's been 30 minutes."

Two hours later, Ricardo asks what that sound is. I look back and report back to him, "Oh look, the kids just made cowbells with their soda cans. See there, music education you wouldn't happen anywhere but in the vortex of desperation for entertainment: on a road trip."

"So, when do you think they'll get sick of those cowbells."

"I don't know honey, looks like they're pretty proud."

"Maybe we can get them to stop their creativity and dumb down with a movie or something?"

One hour later, they are watching some old Disney Wildlife show.

Max: "Oh my gosh, THERE'S AN ALLIGATOR IN THE HIPPO POND!"

Ricado: "There's an alligator ripping a hippo apart!?"

Max: with a hint of confusion and buzzkill in the air, "Uh, no. Hey, what town are we in?"

"Almost to Kearney."

"Is that in Arizona?"

"No, Max, we're still in Nebraska."

This is going to be a great trip!

That's how I roll!

First of all. I need to make a disclaimer. If you are offended by pictures of poop, then do NOT scroll down. If the look of poop may make you gag, skip this post entry and the idea of having kids. Just go ahead and move on. We'll all wait. Go on. Go ahead. It's okay, we won't judge you.

They gone?

Whew. I've done my job. First of all, let me say that I am in no way making a mockery of the true meaning of Easter. I'm simply acknowledging the mockery that the Easter Bunny brings. So, here we go.

This past week, we went on a whirlwind Griswold family roadtrip. But we couldn't take Farley the Wonderdog. Ricardo and I debated about whether we should ask Julz(HOLLA!) to watch Farley. A kennel for 5 days is a lot for a dog the size of Farley. No matter what, the kennel is too small. So, we opted to ask Julz(HOLLA!) and allow plenty of opportunity to back out. Farley loves Julz(HOLLA!) and her family and would love ruling the house and greeting her everyday. However, Julz(HOLLA!) just had a sweet sweet baby, has two dogs of her own, a pre-schooler and a kindergartener. So, we were hesitant, but hopeful. And lo, she was happy to stand up to the task.

Typically he's easy to watch. Just let him out a couple of times a day, he gets a pill in the morning, fed twice a day. If you wanna turn on some Animal Planet for him, that's fine. Fairly simple stuff. A couple of days before we left, Farley started waking up earlier than usual, needing to go out. I felt bad, but called Julz(HOLLA!) and asked if Sven could stop by and let him out earlier on his way to work. Still, all good.

So, we head out on our trip, and I'll spare you the details, but Farley opted in his old age to uh, express himself with pooh...all over the tv room. For two days. They cleaned up poop for three days straight. AND, I'd also left my giant Easter Eggs out and had the girls' job be to count the eggs and make sure they were all there. Apparently, the hurricane gusts sent the entire family on a literal Easter Egg Hunt. I would have resolved to hire a carpet cleaner and give up on the eggs. However, my sweet sweet friends cleaned the carpet and pooh each time he expressed himself. And they searched high and low for those eggs - finding some in a ditch on a major road.

So, I'm having a kick ass road trip while my pal is at home shlepping three kids around, nursing one of them, running her own household, and Sven's throwing up while cleaning up poop before he goes to work. I'm just hoping she doesn't change her numbers and email address at this point. On day three, she took him to the vet for us. And upon my begging her, just put the remaining eggs in the garage. She was even so thoughtful as to collect Farley poop for the vet to analyze.

Thank goodness, because the vet analyzed the poop, kenneled Farley, and diagnosed Farley with, and get this, "Shit Chaos". Two prescriptions and 2 days later, Farley came home. I cannot thank Sven and Julz(HOLLA!) enough and they can't stop apologizing for the Shit Chaos, and our carpet. Granted, our carpet has never been cleaner, but whatever!

So, yesterday was our first day home. Ricardo escaped to work early. That's odd. And the kids and I ran some errands and then they went outside to play. That's when Lucy comes running inside with, "Max, come out to the backyard! There's a Farley pooh out here that looks just like an Easter Bunny head just in time for Easter!"

I giggled a bit, but never made it outside to see for myself. I figured it was a vague depiction of Easter Bunnyness. When Ricardo got home, I remembered the funny quote that Lucy said, and told him about it. We're always trading back and forth the funny stuff the kids say. If it was a competition, I so won that day. So, the kids get all excited and take him out to see it.

Ricardo comes inside and asks for the camera. Really hunny? Gross. Fine, here it is. He comes back in with the camera and shows me. And I cannot believe it, it's a damn Easter Bunny pooh. Next thing I know, we're emailing it to friends and family, and it took me a while and some convincing, but I relented and posted it on Facebook. All the road trip pictures of my cute kids and the Grand Canyon, and the Farley pooh has broken some record of comments on the photo on Facebook. Everyone is disgusted and yet intrigued.

Tonight just to prove that I did not photo shop this picture, I will take a video - of poop. So, here it is, expressing himself one poop at a time Happy Easter from Farley the Wonderdog.

That's how he rolls.

We just got back from a crazy wicked awesome super rad very long road trip. On top of all of that, the kids aren't in school the rest of this week due to Spring Break. For my sanity and theirs, I've opted to post while they sleep. It's late and they are still awake. So, I think I'll just explain our road trip with a picture....one of many.

That's how I roll. 2,700 miles at a time.

Ricardo and I are very happy with our two kids. They are perfect, hillarious, wonderful, and they are absolutely all I can handle. Beyond a shadow of a doubt. To throw another kid into the mix would not be nice to said kid, nor Max and Lucy. Farley the WonderDog would reject baby and assume she was a snack or something. The only one who would benefit from another kid is my therapist, and her drug rep.

Once, long ago, back in the days of archaic birth control that I still have yet to confess about because I don't feel a bit guilty - nor do I need to be absolved by a celibate priest - once I forgot to take my pills. For a couple of days. The kids were about 2 years-old and I was worried I might be pregnant for like 2 hours. By worried, I mean, I'm sure I would welcome life and all, but I remember driving and looking in the rear view mirror of my minivan and trying to figure out if I had another baby, how I'd get three into the minivan on a cold snowy day. I worried so much about it in fact, I went straight home and willed my body to start my period. The most terrifying two hours of my life. Granted, my minivan holds a family of seven, but we are family of giants. So, four is just right for leg room and sanity. And getting them in there and out, and some who can walk, baby carrier's are heavy, there's wigglers and fingers to be crushed in doors and windows. No way I could cart around 3 kids without CPS tailing me. I'd have to just stay home until the twins were old enough to drive themselves.

In summary, Ricardo and I are very happy with what we have. We acknowlege our (my) limits and know when not to push said limits. We know how lucky we are to have had two healthy babies - to walk out of that hospital all together, not one day in NICU. We beat a lot of odds. So, when I say no more kids, really, I'm the guy at the casino who has the audacity to hit the jackpot and then leave while I'm way ahead.

Somewhere in there, at my annual doctor's visit, I may have mentioned that a) I'm done making superbabies. and 2) I'm really sick of periods. Soon I learned of a procedure to take care of all that. And I had that done. It was the start of what apparently has turned into an annual narcotics fest. About once a year, I end up having a procedure that involves insurance-paid narcotics. More bang for our premium-paid buck, I suppose.

If there's any men out there still reading, (I probably lost a lot of you at the mention of periods) it might behoove you to skip the rest of this post. Details of my uterus are about to ensue...and 3....2.....1.

So, for 2 1/2 years, I've had the luxury of no periods. Nope. No. Seriously, no periods. Really. Yes, they really can make that happen. And they did. So, you can imagine my surprise when a few months ago, I got what seemed to be a period. Then a month later another one. Then another one.

I'm pretty sure I went to the bathroom one night and Ricardo heard me yell something like, "Oh NO MY UTERUS DIDN'T!"

I went in to talk to my doctor. Does insurance cover a re-do? And after I described all my symptoms to her, she was pretty sure the ablation was still in tact, but that it sounded like I have adenomyosis. Don't be alarmed. It's not life threatening. However, it can get worse, stronger cramps. And eventually, I might need a full hysterectomy. Or, the only cure for this adenomyosis is to go ahead and have a partial hysterectomy. They'll leave my ovaries in and I won't need to go on hormones. After my ablation, I had no bleeding, but all other symptoms of a period - bloating, the monthly zits, all that fun stuff. But with my cervix and uterus gone, no more bloating, cramping, bleeding. OBGYN SAYS WHAT!? Sign me up!

Did you say 6 weeks, no lifting more than 10 pounds and 2 weeks of absolute couch potato, no driving? Let's effn do this! I realize the effort to prepare for this luxury vacation will be overwelming. No lifting more than 10 pounds for 6 weeks, just so y'all know equals no laundry. No grocery shopping - well, the way I do it anyway.

Don't tell anyone, BUUUTTTT, I really like taking care of this household. I think I'll enjoy the time off until the narcotics run out. I've finally found my niche though - I feel like I have more of a right to master groceries, menu planning, chauffering, and laundry than owning that Masters of Communications. Still, I'll stop bugging Ricardo about a Carribean vacation getaway.

So, in a few weeks, I'll go in and have this "work" done. I'm sure it will all go well, and I appreciate my second, third, and fourth opinions on this. Yours too, Mom. It's not life-threatening. I'll put it in jock terms. She's gone from benchwarmer to starter, to mvp. She finished up her eligibility a long time ago. It's time to just take her out back, retire her jersey. (But leave the pants.)

That's how I roll.

Today, Ricardo and I went to lunch, and when I dropped him back off at work, my lights on my dashboard panel started acting weird. It said there was a door open and there wasn't. And my super power buttons to open sliding minivan doors were not working. Mostly, I was alarmed when I went to manually open the back and it wouldn't budge. So, I drove my ride out to the dealership. We have a warranty that's almost up in 4,000 miles. Most of that mileage we're about to burn on a Griswold Road Trip to the Grand Canyon. And I didn't want to get there and not be able to open doors.

"Kids, you'll just have to look out the windows. Nope, we're not getting out because, uh....well, we can't. Look at that large gorge, cool huh?...What? Sure, I guess we could crawl out the windows. Help push mommy's hips through. PUSH!"

So, I stroll into the dealership service center, give them the spiel, and end it with,

"So, that's what happened, and my husband told me to bring it in to you and tell you all of that. My job here is done."

He says "okay". Taps stuff into his high flalutent computer. Says he can get to it in about twenty minutes, and I need to sign something. Tap-tap-tap. Enter. And,

"You'll need to sign here."

"What am I signing."

"Well, this says that the initial diagnostic is $69.95. If we have to do work, you have a deductible of $100, so we won't charge me more than $100."

"Wait, what? The car is under warranty..."

"Yes. There's a $100 deductible on your warranty..." Pause with embarassed look and waiting for me to buy it.

Have you ever heard of a deductible on your car warranty? All I could think of is that this guy is nice enough. He has nice eyes, and he's probably about to be jobless and he has the power to fix my car. I think that's worth $100. I'll just chalk it up to my contribution to the Auto Industry Bailout.

I've been eyeballing Hondas and Volkswagens ever since. And I'm considering charging a deductible on picking up the kids from school next week.

That's how I roll.