Cardinals and Confetti

Every time I open my nightstand drawer, shreds of confetti catch my eye. Half are orange, the others blue, scattered among a tube of worn down ChapStick, a pair of glasses, OCD medication that seems to have lost its effectiveness, and an unread Bible that I keep promising to get to.

There's this common adage that God meets you exactly where you are. If you’re like me, you hear this and roll your concealer-caked eyes. I’m platinum blonde and six feet tall-----it’s not like I’m hard to find. He has yet to meet me in the pantry. Or in the school carline. Or in the ridiculously long Starbucks’ drive-thru because people order the stupidest drinks with oat milk and dragon fruit and sixteen different ingredients and just.give.me.my.damn.black.coffee.

My dog had an interaction with a raccoon the other day. I didn’t see the whole thing and am not sure what actually occurred, but I assume they weren’t having afternoon tea. I picked up my dog without thinking, and ever since then, I’ve reached the end of the internet researching rabies. My exposure is as follows: possible raccoon saliva transferred to Lucy’s fur and then transferred to a recent bleeding mosquito bite on my left arm. I’m giving you the short version of this---the longer version has consumed my life. OCD is a thief of time, and if rabies is incubating inside of my central nervous system, then I don’t have a whole lot of it left.

There's a story from nearly three years ago that I’ve recounted a few times after too many espresso martinis. Each retelling makes me cringe, as it sounds a bit cheesy—almost like a fantastical tale that might be better left untold. Yet, I continue to feel a strong urge to share it. So, feel free to cast those skeptical glances my way. I'm no stranger to the ‘ole eye roll---I once performed an entire Britney Spears’ dance routine in my wedding dress in front of some unimpressed senior citizens. Judge away.

I love basketball. I’ve loved it since I was old enough to dribble the ball with my dad, waiting until after dinner when we could roll the portable hoop to the front of the driveway. We would take the train to see the Chicago Bulls and go to the NCAA tournaments to watch teams I had never even heard of, and I was completely enthralled. I remember the ’98 tournament when Bryce Drew and Valparaiso made their Cinderella run. I wore that t-shirt until holes formed. It now lives in a box in my closet---a moth-eaten memory.

Perhaps basketball distracts me from my overactive brain, or maybe I’m just drawn to it because I literally outgrew gymnastics and ballet slippers at age three. Either way, when basketball season is upon us, I consume myself with stats and offenses and strategies----and for a brief respite, I’m able to forget about rabid raccoons lurking in my backyard and all the scary, shitty things that happen to really good people, and perhaps, most of all, that the only certainty in this life is uncertainty.

I’m not a superstitious person by nature, nor do I really believe in signs, but on March 6, 2022, I swear two flew right by me. “Mom, I just saw two cardinals on that fence post!” shouted Millie, which I know isn’t that strange of a thing to say, especially given how much she talks about everything, but for some reason, the most unusual sense of calm washed over me. I say unusual because if you know me, you know calm is not my natural state.

You see, I was on my way to drop off Millie at theater practice before I left for the last regular season Illini basketball game in Champaign, Illinois. There was a bit of frustration about the way the season was ending, as we had blown our chances for a conference title that once seemed within reach. We had one last, faint glimmer of hope: Wisconsin, the first-place team in the conference, would be the outright champions with a final win over Nebraska that day, and apologies to my friends who wear those silly corn hats, but no way was Nebraska pulling that off. Wisconsin was ranked tenth in the nation, Nebraska had not beaten a top ten team in almost a decade, and to add insult to injury, their leading scorer was out with an injury and their second-best player was ejected from the game. I remember checking the score before I left to take Millie to her practice, and not surprisingly, Wisconsin had around a ten-point lead in the second half.

But then---two red cardinals sitting side by side on a fence post. I once read somewhere, probably when I was scouring the internet for medical advice on brain-eating amoebas (they’d sure have their tiny little amoeba hands full with my brain), that seeing a cardinal is a sign from a loved one in Heaven. Now, I don’t usually put much stock into that stuff, but I do believe there are times in this life when the thin veil between Heaven and Earth becomes almost transparent, and the presence of something greater than ourselves is hard to deny. On this day, thoughts of my old friends Matt and Tony surfaced in my busy mind, and I smiled.

“We’re going to win the Big Ten Championship tonight,” I thought.

Moments later, in the theater parking lot, I glanced down at my phone for the score. And there it was. Nebraska had come back and won the game by one single, beautiful point.

Hear me out. I know that God has way more pressing matters than the outcome of some college basketball game, but “He meets you right where you are,” remember? No, in that moment it wasn’t just about the game; like maybe, just maybe, it was a quiet confirmation that my two basketball-loving friends who left this world long before they were supposed to, are at peace. That despite my lacking faith, He’s not given up on me yet.

There was a nervous, palpable energy that night in Champaign. I was on some low carb diet again but I ate my way through two jumbo pretzels and cheese while I clenched and unclenched my fists for forty minutes. The game was close. They were up, they were down, they were back up again. They won by two points. I’ll remember it forever.

We stormed the court once the buzzer sounded and chaos ensued. Shoulder to shoulder with every other sweaty fan in that building, I stopped momentarily and looked up into the empty stands. I found two seats that I knew weren’t actually empty---Matthew and Tony were just nearby.

And so was God. There, on a crowded court covered in confetti, He found me.

Something Seems Fishy

“Pack a swimsuit,” my husband shouted from the bedroom as I threw a week’s worth of black tunics and leggings into my suitcase. A swimsuit?? For skiing in Utah? Sweetheart, this body is swimsuit ready perhaps one day of the year, and that’s usually after a violent stomach bug. Ain't no way I'm stuffing myself into Lycra to then float around in some bacteria-ridden hot tub stew.

Then there’s my neighbor Robert, who is also with us on our ski trip. I watch in awe as he consumes TWO Double Quarter Pounders WITH cheese from my favorite French restaurant, Le McDonald’s. I’m no mathematician, but I believe that equals around one full pound of pure beef goodness. And he’s skinny. Skinny skinny.

This ski trip was monumental for two reasons: Number one, I don't ski. And number two, upon our return, there would be a fully functioning fish tank waiting for Millie in her bedroom, complete with silk aquarium plants, blue rocks, a filter, a pump, and a bunch of other expensive nonsense. My mother was taking care of treating and conditioning the water and all that would be left to do was for Millie to pick out her fish. Let me give you a little backstory:

My child is obsessed with sharks—and it’s not the healthy kind of obsession that I have with Britney Spears or Lindt milk chocolate. She carries around a shark encyclopedia on the daily; she can rattle off over 50 species in the span of a minute. It’s like Bubba in the movie Forrest Gump. “There’s lemon sharks. There’s tiger sharks. There’s sands sharks; wobbegong sharks, thresher sharks…”

I was painting my nails a few months ago when she stood in front of me and announced, "Commercial fishing kills over 50 million sharks a year as a result of 'bycatch'. There's a charity I can donate my birthday money to who helps find these illegal fishing vessels and then reports them."

"No one likes a tattle-tale, Millie," I told her.

We decided she could use her savings to buy her very own fish tank and transform her bedroom into a mini aquarium.

So back to present day. The ski trip was a wild success. I broke zero bones and gained five pounds. Millie was overjoyed with her fish tank, and now she only had to wait a few more days for the water to finish conditioning.

Since Matt and I had a birthday party to attend in Chicago, my mom offered to stay overnight at our house and take Millie to purchase her fish. The day had finally arrived for us to welcome into the family: Jaws 1, Jaws 2, Jaws 3, Jaws Revenge, and Robert "Bob" the Snail (not to be confused with the Double-Quarter-Pounder-eating-phenomenon Robert my neighbor).

Welp, I got an early morning phone call in my hotel room that added to my burgeoning headache. Two of the fish were dead, and the others had gone missing. "Like someone stole them?" I asked, half-asleep. "Well, we recovered two bodies but the others are gone. We've searched the entire tank. We're wondering if Bob ate them." (Hmm...maybe he IS to be confused with the Double-Quarter-Pounder-eating-phenomenon Robert my neighbor).

So back to the fish store they headed with a Ziploc of Jaws 1 and Jaws Revenge along with a water sample to test the PH levels. Millie and my mom return home with three larger fish and all is well again---for two hours. At this point we're home from Chicago, and we're sitting in front of the tank when all of a sudden the fish begin to float upside down. Millie's eyes fill with tears and I whisper to my husband, "This ain't good."

Bob is the sole survivor, or so we think. It turns out that snails can stay dormant for weeks at a time, so he's not really giving us any indication.  He's also a bit shy, so we're really just waiting for him to come out of his shell.

Now back to a different pet store and finally some answers.  We have what is called "New Tank Syndrome."  Something about ammonia and a lack of bacteria and the tank needing cycled for approximately 6-8 weeks. Apparently one needs a Master's Degree in chemistry to keep a few guppies alive, which is confusing to me as I'm pretty sure I once won a bagged goldfish at the Decatur Celebration and he thrived in a dirty bowl for three years. 

Well, now Millie is traumatized. She can't get the image of those dead floating guppies out of her mind, and she's scared to sleep in her bedroom.  Exhausted from my night out in Chicago, I give in and let her sleep downstairs. Our master bedroom is on the main level, and both girls' bedrooms are upstairs, so naturally Greta is scared to sleep upstairs without Millie. I make things easy and say I'll sleep in Millie's room. Wonderful. Can I please go to bed now?

So here I am, tossing and turning, listening to the "BUBBBBLE bubble GURRRGLE gurrgle WOOOOsshhh" sound of the damn fish tank pump that is probably more suited for the Shedd Aquarium, the entire room is glowing and, I, too, am starting to get a bit frightened. Where DID those missing guppies go? 

I try and ignore the tank and look to the ceiling above me.

Then I look beside me. 

I wake up feeling a bit seasick, but hey, nothing Fat Tuesday can't fix. Millie orders a large Oreo McFlurry, and when I tell her she can settle for a small, she reminds me that she's mourning eight dead pets, so a large it is. I quickly decide against the fish filet sandwich, and oh, screw it: I'll take the Double Quarter Pounder with cheese.  

Ramblings of a Stay-at-Home-Mom

I scrubbed dried shit out of my dog’s butthole fur for over an hour yesterday. I’m telling you this because nobody noticed (except for my dog, I’m sure). Not my daughters, not my mailman, certainly not my husband. Nobody ever notices.

It may seem as though I'm asking for accolades for my daily mom duties; acknowledgment that we do in fact get shit done. And that would be correct. Maybe I'm tired of my metaphorical stay-at-home-mom desk being absent of those fancy glass awards they hand out at "real" jobs: 'Most Innovative 2021.' 'Best in Sales 2004.' I know it doesn't take much brain-power to pull out my dog's dingleberries, but a simple, "Hey, the dog's butt is looking particularly clean today" would go a long way for me.

Matt and my brother-in-law went to the Ryder Cup last weekend, because, well, of course they did. And per usual, I planned a weekend of fun activities for the kids and my nephews that included pumpkin painting and playgrounds and destroying my house.

On Saturday, we loaded everyone into my car and headed to the pumpkin patch. My littlest nephew gave us some problems that day. He was the whiniest he's ever been and we couldn't seem to figure out the cause. I assumed maybe he's just not a pumpkin spice and everything autumn kind of dude, but fast forward to Sunday and a call from my sister: he's got the dreaded Hand, Foot, and Mouth virus.

Most people would say, "Awww, poor little guy. Hope he feels better soon." But most people aren't stay-at-home-moms with a Las Vegas trip coming up in ten days that they've planned with their best friends for a year now. Most people also don't have OCD.

This has consumed me. I've been researching Hand, Foot, and Mouth disease like a mad scientist. I think I may have found the end of the Internet. And in case you're wondering my level of exposure, my nephew clung to me all weekend like a drooling koala bear. I kissed those fat, slobbery cheeks and stuck french fries in his chubby wet hands. I was as exposed as a Vegas showgirl. (How DO they get those booby tassels to swing like that? Fascinating.)

The adult cases I've found of HFM disease sound horrifying: hands and feet so painful that one cannot even walk. How am I supposed to stumble around Vegas in my new size twelve, wide-width stilettos? Can I crawl from slot machine to slot machine? And will my blistered fingers be able to hit max bet at a fast enough pace to blow through my budget on night one?

I know that I make this sound light-hearted and silly, but OCD is devastating: it's not the casual, "Oh, I'm so OCD about little Benjamin's lego bin" or Susie making her hangers all face in the same direction. It's an actual chemical imbalance; a monster in my mind.

Last month I feared touching my daughter's tiny frog aquarium (thanks to my mom for that disgusting gift) because one of the little dwarf frogs had a white cotton substance growing from its body. After much research, I came to a horrific realization: there was a fungus among us. 

Someone asked me the other day what it felt like to have OCD. I’ve been thinking about that question. Simply put, it’s like having one of those old CD Walkmans jammed inside your brain and the same horrible song just keeps skipping and skipping. And it's not a delightful Britney Spears' ditty. It's Nickelback. Or Creed. 

There’s no reprieve; just the same thought over and over on repeat. It’s utter exhaustion; a marathon in my brain with no finish line in sight.

I've coped through it all these years with counseling, Prozac, humor, and buttercream icing. Prior to my hand-foot-mouth exposure of all exposures, I went on one of my super smart crash diets to fit into my pre-selected Vegas wardrobe that somehow shrunk in my closet these past few months. Ten days with no carbs and I successfully dropped a quick five pounds. Here I come Vegas: mama is ready to rummmble.

And then I popped into a bakery. I was in Springfield yesterday morning purchasing a cookie cake for our neighbors who are moving, and I convinced myself I had enough self-control to simply buy this one dessert and leave (hahahahahahahaha). 

I walked into that cake shop, and I swear the smell of that buttercream icing had me floating over to the display counter like some magic potion. 

The lady at the register asked me if I wanted anything written in icing on my second cookie cake, and I paused for a moment until deciding that "Best Dingleberry Picker 2021" simply wouldn't fit.

I've always wanted to be a writer. But I'm not writing. Instead, I'm sitting in a parking lot and staring at a tree while eating my feelings and paranoias and inadequacies; a sugary cure for my OCD and stay-at-home-mom exhaustion. Wait. Is that a blister that just appeared on the palm of my hand? False alarm. It's a red sprinkle.

I went home and cleaned up the kitchen. I put dinner in the oven and changed the laundry for the third time that day. I disinfected the toys in case Barbie contracted Hand, Foot, and Mouth disease, and I looked around to see that despite my efforts, the house still looked the exact same. I then finished that damn cookie cake like the champion I am, and I casually tossed the empty container in the trash can. I didn't even bother hiding the evidence. It's not like anyone would notice.

Cookies and Grace

I wore my daughter's disposable mask the other day without realizing she had previously used it to blow her nose. That was a first. 

I feel like we've all had a year of 'firsts', if you will: the first time wearing a mask to a restaurant; the first time having my temperature checked to enter a building; the first time calling poison control on myself.

This one is actually a very simple story----it could happen to the best of us (it did; I'm the best). My mom had sugar cookies cooling on a cookie rack and next to them were five different tubes of gel icing. 

I selected the neon pink tube for my mostly cooled cookie, and since no one was watching and therefore could not judge me, I used the entire tube of icing. The first bite was kind of funky. The second and third were no better. I considered tossing the last bite into the trash, but I don't quit on cookies because they've never quit on me.  

Ok, that was officially the grossest icing I've ever consumed.  I hurried to the other room to complain to my mom about her bogus Betty Crocker purchase, but she took the empty tube from my hand and shook her head in confusion.  "This is food coloring." 

Dammit. 

I know that food coloring is food grade and therefore edible, of course, but I ate the whole concentrated tube, ya'll. My mouth started feeling numb. It was also hot pink. My tongue looked like a Lisa Frank eraser. 

The lady with Poison Control was gracious but confused. "So you took just one bite of the cookie with food coloring, right?" she asked. 

"Well, no, mam, I pushed through and finished it."

She humored me for a moment before telling me I would be fine. I think about it now and laugh. It's funny. I'm funny. I'm also a binge eater. That's not always so funny.

My life feels out of control sometimes. It's felt pretty much out of control this entire pandemic, and so I cope with carbohydrates. I was so proud of myself last winter (pre-pandemic). I ate a bunch of nasty, dry protein bars and tasteless health shakes and found myself 32 pounds lighter. My clothes fit like they were supposed to fit. I felt more confident. I developed a bit of a peacock strut. 

Then the whole world went to shit. This past year was incredibly trying for my mental health: fear, anxiety, boredom, sadness, uncertainty. Suddenly, egg whites weren't cutting it.

Not surprisingly, I've put back on almost all that weight I worked so hard to lose. I did attempt a juice cleanse a couple of weeks ago, but one day into the diet, I remembered that pizza existed, and so there went that overpriced idea. 

Each day I tell myself that THIS is the day I will start eating better, yet each day comes and goes and makes a liar out of me. That motivation I had last winter is all but gone, and here I am, stuck in this caloric rut with a fading hot pink tongue and a pile of dirty laundry. 

The days can be so impossibly long as a stay-at-home mom. They're even longer in quarantine. 

My father tested positive for Covid back in November (he had a mild case, thank God), but since we'd all been exposed, the kids were stuck remote learning for a fourteen day quarantine. Even two negative tests were not enough to free us. Not leaving the house for two straight weeks made me do some crazy sh*t. Case in point:

Luckily for you, our quarantine was up before I had the chance to recreate her red catsuit video. Meow. 

My daughter came home from school the other day and asked me if it was always going to be like this--- the wearing masks and keeping a distance from her friends at school. I could see a genuine sadness in her eyes, and my heart broke for her.  For once, I wasn't going to tell her to suck it up. I didn't remind her how good we've got it; that we're still incredibly blessed. She knows all that. But this is her reality. She's allowed to mourn it. 

"It's not supposed to be like this," I told her. "And I'm sorry."

We're living in some unprecedented times, and I'm thinking we all just need to give each other a little bit of grace. Social media has become such an ugly place for people to pass judgement and advance their crazy conspiracy theories that I actually preferred the days of the pyramid schemes. Why, yes, Susan, I will buy that non-FDA approved magic potion syrup if you would just stop posting articles of the benefits of wearing three masks at the beach.

I get why the world has been so focused on health during this pandemic, because, DUH, it's a pandemic. This virus attacks the respiratory system. It attacks the vascular system. It wrecks the body, but I also feel the need to say this: it's attacking our mental health, as well. There's this thought that if we talk about the consequences of this pandemic on our actual sanity, then we're minimizing the seriousness of this virus. But I don't find that to be true; the two are not mutually exclusive. 

We are able to fear this virus and recognize its devastation while still mourning the small, silly things in our lives that have been taken away or put on pause. Is that selfish of us? Sure. But we're human beings. We all feel it, right?

I miss concerts. I miss going to college basketball games and dripping nacho cheese on my black leggings while the crowd roars around me. I miss getting all up in my friends' faces after one too many glasses of wine. I mostly just miss all the people. 

 

Hippos and Hernias

I'm trying to be more present in the present. Did I quote that correctly? All the sentimental, overbearing 'mom groups' on Facebook (I can almost smell the essential oils  through my computer screen) write something to that effect in one of their fancy social media fonts: that being present in the moment is what matters most to your children. Although I'm generally not one to take advice unless it's from Britney Spears or one of those Dove chocolate wrappers, that quote really resonated with me. 

This pandemic has afforded me eight months of complete togetherness with my children and husband, yet I haven't fully taken advantage of this unexpected opportunity. I'll be the first to admit that I spend too much time on my phone. And on Netflix. And in the pantry. Currently, my patience is the only thin thing about me. 

My children do a lot of talking, and I haven't been the greatest listener. Like many I know, I've struggled through 2020. 

And then, as if times were not crazy enough, my husband, the same man who wouldn't notice if I turned vegan and grew a tail (the odds of either of these things happening are about the same), discovered a small lump on Greta's abdomen. After a terrifying visit to the pediatrician, it's been determined she has an epigastric hernia which needs surgically repaired. We met with a specialist in Springfield, and because my children are overachievers (#humblebrag), it's now been determined that she has not one, but TWO hernias! 

How did I miss this? How did my husband discover her hernia when he can't even find his golf clubs? I'm usually the most hyperaware person on the planet, and I never noticed this bump?! I thought back to that sappy quote about being present in the present, and I let the mom guilt wash over me. From here on out, I was going to be a super-involved mother! I thought of the simplest way to do that: I would show more interest in my children and their hobbies; spend more time doing what they want to do. 

"I want to wear one of those inflatable costumes for Halloween this year," Millie told me one September day. "Like one of those dinosaurs or sumo wrestlers." 

Hey, I thought! That's something we can do together!! We could trick-or-treat as an inflatable family! I immediately (and somewhat impulsively) went on Amazon and clicked BUY NOW when I saw 'Ruby the Inflatable Hippo' suit! I'd be the hipp-oest mom around! 

The costume arrived promptly at 4 o’clock on a Saturday afternoon. Matt was golfing in Effingham with some friends, the kids were with their grandma, and I was enjoying a few rare moments of silence before the ladies picked me up to meet the husbands for dinner in Effingham. It was an unusually warm September day, but I figured I would still break out the new fall wardrobe. I had just pulled the turtleneck over my head and was putting the finishing touches on my makeup when I heard the doorbell ring. I tore into the Amazon box and laid out the monstrous costume across the foyer. Tossing the instruction pamphlet to the side, I grabbed some fresh AA batteries and stepped into the hippo.

A wire battery pack leads to the inflatable fan which causes Ruby to rise. In hindsight, that battery pack should be left on the outside of the costume, but who reads instructions, right? I pressed the switch on the battery pack, tucked it into my pants, and shoved my arms through the sleeves. WHOOOOoooooooshhhh!!! The costume slowly started to inflate around me. Within seconds, I was eight feet tall and three feet wide. Pretty impressed with myself, I grabbed my phone off the counter and took a series of selfies to later share with my kids. I danced around a bit. I spun. 

Somehow I didn’t anticipate the sweat. Five minutes in that costume and I was melting. The hotter I became, the more claustrophobic I felt. Time to get out of this thing, I thought. So I reached around to unzip myself, only to find that while inflated, my arms were about as useful as those of a T-rex. I couldn’t reach the zipper. 

Alright, well I'll just have to power down the battery pack, I decided. Welp, at that current moment, the battery pack had fallen from my waistband and was dangling down between my legs, which also happened to be inside the hippo suit. 

I don’t do well with problem solving. I panic. I cry. Sometimes I eat entire cakes. Here I was, stuck inside a hippopotamus costume in 80 degree temperatures, all while wearing a turtleneck sweater. I could feel the walls closing in. I FaceTimed my mom. Turns out, she sucks at problem solving, too. “Walk down the street to your sister’s house,” she suggested. Seriously, mother? Walk two blocks in a hippo suit in broad daylight? 

Next up, I FaceTimed the hubby. This one was going to be a bit harder to explain, mostly considering the fact I had not told him I purchased an eight foot hippo costume. He, also, was not helpful.

I found this screenshot on his phone

I needed to pop this hippo. I considered running full force into a wall, but my top speed clocks in at about 4 miles per hour, and Ruby the Hippo is surprisingly well-made. 

Panic set in. It was now 4:30, and the ladies would be arriving in thirty minutes to pick me up. I decide to call my friend, Andrea, the driver, and ask her to step on the gas. Even at seven months pregnant, Andrea's stomach resembles mine after half of a McChicken, so I figure, what the hell if she sees me in this? I normally look like a hippo next to her anyways. 

So now I'm standing at the window, watching for her car to pull up, when she texts and tells me that she’s stuck in a construction zone and it’s going to be a bit longer.  “I don’t have a bit longer, Andrea,” I yell into my sauna suit. 

Then, in a moment of clarity, I see my neighbors step out into the woods between our house. This is my chance. I suck up my pride and stuff myself through the door. They immediately turn and stare at me, confused looks on their faces like they've never seen a hippopotamus in a ballet tutu. I then see that their adult daughter and boyfriend are also with them, and they’re taking fall pictures. Trying to remain incognito, I step back and resqueeze myself through the door. I'll wait until I'm a few feet thinner to meet her new boyfriend. 

Andrea finally arrives. She unzips me in a flourish, but then confesses she was worried I was naked underneath. Ha! No way! That would make me some kind of weirdo!

I tucked Ruby into the back of my closet, unstuck my matted hair from my sweaty head, and headed to dinner. I figured all this pain and embarrassment would be worth it when I surprised Millie with my Halloween idea. 

The day after #hippogate, I'm back on Amazon and searching inflatables for Millie when she plops down next to me on the couch. I hand her my iPad and tell her to pick out whichever inflatable costume she wants to be. 

"Um, mom, I'm going as a vampire." 

Bicycles and Baddies

So there I am, out for my evening bike ride, when a beat-up truck full of teenagers comes rumbling through the neighborhood. I obligingly pedal my mom-bike and toddler-trailer-pull-along to the side of the road, when they roll down their windows and start shouting at me. The only word I could really make out was "baddie" (Urban Dictionary: a baddie is a girl who is extremely put together and looks phenomenal even on her off days).

I chuckled to myself. I've always loved a nice compliment. Then I glanced down at my attire: a Mickey Mouse t-shirt and Adidas mesh shorts that touched the tops of my knees, finished off with rubber Croc sandals. Huh, well that's strange. Why would anyone in their right mind call me a "baddie" in this get-up? So I pondered for a moment. Did I mishear that cat-call? Did the sound of the muffler distort their adolescent yells? And if so, what word sounds similar to baddie? 

OMG. 

Did those assholes call me a FATTY?!?

I watched as the truck drove farther down the street until it parked in a neighbor's driveway. I continued pedaling through the neighborhood, contemplating my next move. I could hear them out back at their friend's pool, and I thought maybe I could just pop my head over the fence with a cool, "Hey bros! Just wanted to clear something up...did you guys refer to me as a fatty or a baddie? If it was the latter, then continue on with your TikTok!"

I pulled into my driveway and presented the situation to my husband. "What in the hell is a baddie?" he asked. (Keep in my mind my husband is nearing forty and is nowhere near as hip as myself, so I read him the definition.)  He stared at me for a moment and then replied, "Yeah, they definitely didn't call you a baddie."

I rode around the neighborhood on my geriatric bike seat, fuming.  Just wait till you dweebs get married and your wife bears two children for you. Let's see how much of a baddie she is then, huh boys? That youthful metabolism will slow down, just you wait! And then throw a pandemic into the mix!! See how good she'll look in those stupid booty shorts then!

I took the higher road (not literally, because I was out of breath from pedaling so hard), and left the boys to their pool party. Pick your battles, Stefanie. Also, pizza had just arrived.

If you've ever followed my blog, you'll know that my two biggest struggles are OCD and my weight. This pandemic has not been kind to either. For the most part, I've avoided the dreaded COVID weight gain (although not according to those pimple-face fools), but the past three weeks have been an exception. I finally scheduled a date for Greta's tonsillectomy. Surgery of any kind is a huge trigger for my OCD---I can't even talk about it without tearing up. An image of my child intubated on an operating table makes my heart race and my palms sweat. That image strikes fear in my body, and so my super healthy coping mechanism is to stockpile food like a squirrel in the winter.

Thankfully, the doctor performing the surgery is a close friend (lucky him!), and although I couldn't convince him to FaceTime me during the surgery so I could double-check his work with all the YouTube videos I viewed, I knew she was in the safest of hands. (Shoutout to Dr. Ulis!) 

The tonsils are out, and Greta is recovering. We stayed one night in the hospital and are now back home, resting. (This is super challenging because I'm such a fierce opponent of screen time.) 

I took Millie to the local park the other night so we could spend some much needed time together, and I'm on the little mouse exercise wheel and I'm back in my Mickey shirt and Croc sandals when I hear a deep rumbling in the parking lot. I kid you not, that same truck of teeny-boppers peeled into that parking lot and off they went to the basketball court, laughing and cussing. This was my chance. I could confront them and clear this all up once and for all. But Matt had tacos waiting at home. 

So off I walked. Like a baddie. 

The Quarantine Scene

Things Millie has learned since studying at The University of Mama: Minecraft counts towards her architecture degree, pizza Lunchables cover our home-ec hour, and sadly, the Tooth Fairy is actually dressed in stained sweatpants and a Britney Spears t-shirt.

I feel pretty okay with the fact that Millie made it to her eighth birthday before her first bit of childhood magic disappeared. I've been pretty much waiting for it to happen, like "Come on, kid, you can kill me at Clue, but you haven't figured out that a fairy couldn't make it past our advanced security system?"

I didn't expect for her to take it so hard. My sister ruined everything good for me way before I turned eight.

"So you're the one who leaves the money?" she sobbed into her Pizza Pocket home-ec project.

"Yes, Mills, and I do it because I love you so much! More than any fairy ever could!"

"Wait, so it was also you who left the $5 Target rebate card under my pillow?"

To my credit, I talked my way out of revealing the truth about all the other magical creatures, so for now, I still don't get any thanks for all the overpriced crap under the Christmas tree. Awesome.

This quarantine is taking a toll on all of us,  I'm afraid. We're now a month in, and I asked my husband if he wanted to check into a local hotel just so he didn't go into shock from being home this often.

The elephant in the room (besides me in gray loungewear) has been my OCD.  I hardly made it through the 2011 Listeria  Cantaloupe outbreak with my sanity intact, and the 2017-2018 flu season just about wrecked me. I've been vaccinated for rabies, for goodness' sake, so it's no surprise that we've all been waiting for this pandemic to take over what's left of my logic and reason.

Our friend, Nick, in Switzerland, summed it up the best. He texted Matt, kindly asking about my mental well-being. Matt told him that I was doing surprisingly well, and Nick responded with, "Well, she's been preparing her whole life for this."

Unlike my affinity to Starburst Jellybeans, my OCD has been fairly well contained during this pandemic. I keep waiting for it to hit; for a trigger to send me spiraling into the madness of my mental illness, but perhaps I'm already there. I'm taking some extra precautions, but I've come to realize that most of the measures put in place have simply been my life for the past two decades. This IS my normal. I've been washing my hands 47 times a day since 1995. I've studied cross-contamination more than most restaurant owners.

I read an interesting article the other day highlighting how this pandemic gives others a glimpse into the mind of an OCD sufferer. This anxiety is simply my life. You all think wearing latex gloves at the ATM is a new thing? HA!

I'm very aware of how serious of a situation our world is in. I watch the Coronavirus Task Force briefings every night, and I, like most mothers I know, stay up late worrying about my family and the economy and the health of those around me. If OCD has taught me anything, however, it's that very little of this is in our control. Now don't get me wrong---I'm not trivializing all the things we should be doing to keep this virus at bay, but I also don't need Sally from finance to explain viruses to me via a Facebook post.

And for the love of all things social media, stop telling people they have to bleach their bag of carrots before bringing them inside! You go ahead and leave your ice cream on the porch for three days before touching it, but don't grocery-shame the rest of us!

Sorry for the rant, but between Pinterest Patty telling me how to color coordinate my non-existent homeschool chart while baking seventeen-ingredient glitter Easter bunny cupcakes all while telling me not to go to the store, how am I supposed to find the time to binge-watch Ozarks Season 3, Patricia? Get outta here with that crap!

I was at the liquor store the other day, masked up and needing some Champagne after an intense twenty-minute homeschooling math session (sorry, Millie, I don't know how many apples Johnny has left in his basket. I majored in English at a mediocre state school).

I tried to read the labels on the Champagne bottles but my eyeglasses kept fogging up from my homemade surgical mask, and since I'm not supposed to touch my face to fix my mask, I simply opened the door to the refrigerated wine and just grabbed blindly.

Of course I chose wrongly, and I ended up drinking some cheap wedding bubbly next to a fire with my husband. And it was perfect.

For once in my anxiety-ridden life, I'm giving it God. I'll wear the face mask to the grocery store, I'll wash my hands before eating, and I'll do my best to protect my family, but I'm so dog-tired of worrying.

Sleep 101

Since 'clean eating' is all the rage these days, I thought I would join in on the trend.

WHAT A TIME TO BE ALIVE!!!!

Yesterday was a strange day for me. I drank five cups of coffee, folded two towels while Greta napped for six minutes, and ordered Cheeto finger gloves from Amazon. So yeah, never mind--- it was actually a pretty typical day.

I've never experienced this little sleep in my life.  Greta is up every two to three hours for absolutely no understandable reason. Then there's Millie with her strange interests. First it was sharks; next the Titanic. Now, since discovering her Uncle Craig is a lawyer, she's into last wills and testaments. I'm drinking scalding hot coffee as fast as it will go down while Greta throws a sleep-deprived tantrum and Millie keeps asking if she can have my makeup when I die. "Sure!" I shout. "Take it all!"

Annoyingly, my sister's son, Will, sleeps more than the two-toed sloth.  I look wistfully out my window down the street to her house and wonder what it's like to be her in that big fluffy bed, watching 90 Day Fiancé, when a text pings my phone. It's from the well-rested sister. "William's been napping for almost four hours. Do you think I should wake him up? If he naps too much longer, he'll only sleep for thirteen hours tonight." (insert middle finger emoji)

The husband is out of town. Again. Although this gives me the advantage of stretching out in bed like an overweight starfish, it also makes menial tasks seem impossible.

My glorious shower at home could house a hippopotamus, yet here I am, stuffed in the communal showers at the YMCA so that I can lather my head in peace while Greta plays in their nursery.  Minus the beer bottle next to my loofah, it's like I'm back in the college dorms again.

"Shower while she naps," you're probably thinking. Oh, but dear reader, that wouldn't give the water enough time to get warm.

Fed up, we finally went and had a sleep study performed. That was fun!!!!

The results were pretty much what I expected.  She has sleep-disordered breathing patterns and would most likely benefit from a tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy. I know this seems like no big deal to you serotonin-balanced individuals, but the idea of my two-year-old going under the knife gives me cold sweats. I need time to think and prepare and up my Prozac and maybe even travel to Rome to pray at St. Peter's Basilica.  OCD thrives on uncertainty, and I don't like giving up control unless I can be 100% guaranteed of the results. My good friend Jeff will be her surgeon, so this gives me great comfort, but on the other hand, I'm not yet acquainted with the anesthesiologist or the nurse who will bring her slushies.  What if she has an allergy to blue raspberry?

So next up, we need to pick a date for the operation. While I'm leaning towards September 2027, my husband prefers this afternoon. Maybe I need to just bite the bullet and put it on the calendar. Or better yet, maybe I just need to sleep on it. (insert rolling on the floor laughing emoji)

Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall

"I'm Stefanie Hopkins, and I'm a stay-at-home-mom," I announce. Did my voice just waver? I think it totally just wavered.

I was introducing myself to the newest YMCA board members, and as everyone was giving their name and occupation (lawyer, financial advisor), I wracked my brain for the correct job title. Butt wiper? Netflix extraordinaire? "Hi, I'm Stefanie Hopkins, and I'm really good at spraying whip cream directly in my mouth from the can!"

I spend a good portion of my week defending myself to, well, myself. "I have the hardest job out there," I tell my husband. "You could never do what I do." I've always had the utmost respect for stay-at-home mamas, just as I have the utmost respect for women who work outside the home, yet when it comes to my own chosen lot in life, I feel unfulfilled and forgotten. I try and pride myself in raising my daughters to be kind, intelligent, Christian human beings, so why do my cheeks redden when it comes time to announce my career choice? All of a sudden, I get a bad case of inferiority.

My YMCA/WSOY  fitness and nutrition challenge ended a few weeks ago, and though I had every intention of blogging weekly about it, time got away from me (hello, hardest job in the world over here!!!)  For the first time since moving back from Europe, I started to feel good in my own body again.  I've dropped two pant sizes and gained part of an ab. I broke-up with the Cheesy Gordita Crunch. I tried a piece of kale. I can now lift a Kettlebell without thinking of kettle corn, kettle chips, or Ketel One vodka.  I even find myself humming as I restart the laundry for the third time.

So there I was, moving along so swimmingly (still in a one-piece, of course), when my voice went and wavered.  I went home that day and looked in the mirror and I saw thirty-three looking back at me---a whole lot of sun damage, frown lines, and an empty resume. I've been out of college for twelve years, yet my degree is still inside a dusty cardboard box alongside my fossilized baby teeth and participation trophies. I was going to write a book by now, but instead I'm browsing Amazon for sloth coffee mugs . I was supposed to be a columnist, but I spend my mornings reading the words of other writers. At the very least, I was going to keep up with this pitiful blog. Instead, I'm writing a couple paragraphs every few months and examining my face in a magnified mirror. So what did my reasonable self go and do with all these feelings? Take a walk? Submit a story? Hug my children?

Botox, baby. Yup, said I'd never do it, yet here I am: the Real Housewives of Long Creek. It's almost laughable, though I'm having trouble moving my face muscles at the moment. I won't eat canned vegetables for fear of botulism, but a doctor can inject it straight into my forehead?  Shut up and take my money!!!!

Well it's been two weeks: my wrinkles are diminished, but my inadequacies are not---funny how that happens. You can tell me that I'm working on all the wrong things, but I already know this. I'm lazy and vain, but I still have a fairly decent IQ (according to those online quizzes).  Instead of my frown lines, I should be smoothing out my diminished relationship with God and strengthening my marriage, but I always tend to go for the quick fixes. Just like how I know that exercising with the amazing  and encouraging Angela will leave me feeling healthy and renewed, I still habitually reach for the cream-filled donut instead. We humans are a puzzling breed.

My voice didn't waver at that YMCA meeting because of my job title.  I'm raising strong, bright little girls, and I should announce that like I'm a badass CEO. My voice wavers because I seek out things that don't bring me lasting joy. I'm doing my damnedest to fill myself up with emptiness, Casey's donuts, and Botulism Toxin Type A.

I may not receive a paycheck or an annual bonus, but I'm still contributing. My job may not require a bra or a briefcase, but I have the privilege of shaping little lives. I need to accept that there will always be a stigma attached to the stay-at-home-mom, and the best I can do is refuse to let myself do the attaching.

Day One Recap

I'm thinking about signing up for childbirth again---it's got to be easier than this YMCA challenge. Everything hurts: my thighs, my toes, that area where they say my abs should be, my arms....my hair.

And the worst part of all of this? I still look the same. Yup, day one in the books and I'm not even supermodel status yet. The disappointment is real, folks. Our first workout started with a fifteen minute "warm-up" that was easily the highest my heart rate has been since the Britney Spears' concert I attended in 2015.

We did butt kicks (literally and figuratively) up and down the court. There was time on the track; sprints on the bike. We wrapped TRX bands around our feet and did some crazy acrobatic stuff. It was like Cirque De Soleil up in that gym. We did lunges upon lunges upon lunges. I'm fairly certain the Willis Tower has less flights of stairs than the ones we ran. Up and down, up and down. I took a few breaks in the corner when I saw the camera come around. No way was I going to let them catch my backside lumbering up those steps like Chewbacca. Nope, not today WSOY.

So here's my predicament: day two of the challenge begins in three hours, which would be great...if I could move. I'm walking with my knees locked as to avoid using my thighs. Sitting is the hardest, which ironically is usually my favorite position. We're required to drink 64 ounces of water a day per our nutrition requirements. Seriously? I howl every time I bend my knees to sit down and pee. That much fluid will be the end of me! I thought about adding extra salt to my food to dehydrate myself a bit, but that would put me over the ridiculously low sodium limit. 

I stopped at the gas station on the way to take Amelia to school yesterday. I opened my car door and my favorite chapstick fell out onto the ground. I painfully realized that in order to retrieve it, I would have to bend over. I stared at it for a moment and considered leaving it where it lie.  I stood there outside of Circle K pondering life and I asked myself, "Is it genuinely your favorite? Are chapped lips really that terrible?"

I solved my problem fairly quickly upon returning home while also hitting a new rock bottom. I dug through Greta's toy box until I discovered one of these:

Judge me if you will, but ain't no shame in my robot claw game. 

Macros and Cheese

I fell asleep on the toilet last night. There I am, mid-pee at 2:30 in the morning, and BANG, I smack my head against the toilet paper holder. My whimpering is drowned out by Greta's babbling, which is also not quite loud enough to wake my hibernating husband. I contemplate throwing a shoe at his head, but decide it would take too much energy. It's off to the rocking chair I go. Heigh-ho.

I'm kind of in a bad place---not so much geographically, though I would prefer to be in Hawaii at the current moment (very mild flu activity). Greta Louise Hopkins does not sleep. No, seriously---like hashtag EVER. She keeps hours consistent with Las Vegas. It's actually quite incredible.

We've seen doctors. We've been to specialists. We've done the blood work and read the stupid books. We've done the cry-it-out method more times than I can count, yet it still results in Greta screaming, me crying, the dog barking, and Matt snoring.

I somewhat expected Greta to be a difficult baby early on. In addition to sleep, she hated baby food from the very first bite. From six months of age until her first birthday, all she would consume was a very limited diet of formula, squash, and oatmeal (kind of like me in college, I guess, except it was more like beer, Cheetoh's, and Tostino Pizza Rolls.)

Here I am with a 17 month old toddler and she's drinking formula like a newborn. Every other Tuesday, we drive to Springfield to visit a pediatric feeding clinic where we basically spend an expensive hour watching Greta throw crackers at the wall. We're literally paying someone to make her eat, whereas for $13.99 a month to Weight Watchers, I'm literally paying someone to make me stop.

You see I've lost the initial baby weight, yet I still have 27 pounds before I reach what I weighed back  in Switzerland. I'm on this vicious cycle--- I go back and forth on the Keto diet, and then I go back and forth to McDonald's drive thru.  So when Matt Whitehead asked me to join this Spring's YMCA/WSOY  ten week challenge, I hesitated, thought about it over Taco Bell, and then decided I had nothing to lose except those 27 pounds. It slipped my mind as I agreed to this fitness challenge that all of our workouts are videotaped and then broadcast online. I awoke to this realization in a cold sweat (one of the first sweats I've broken in a while). Not only do I have more of a radio body going on right now, but my coordination rivals that of a newborn fawn.

Part of this program includes a nutritional plan and logging our nutrition into an online application. We're to keep track of our "macros", which I just recently discovered was not short for macaroni. In addition, no fast food for ten weeks, and my sodium intake is seriously restricted. If you've ever shared a meal with me, you know that salt giveth me life.

So here goes nothing. Day one of my transformation. I spent my last day of freedom yesterday enjoying the heck out of some fast food and table salt. Warning: you may see a video of me later today in unflattering yoga pants gasping for air. Just please be kind and remember the camera adds ten pounds.

The Biggest Boob

I've always had a weakness for big things: big purses, big hair, big diamonds, big sandwiches. I consider myself a connoisseur of the finer things in life, yet I also like oversized sweatpants and max-stuffed Oreos. I guess I'm a bit of a walking (or more likely sitting) contradiction. So while I can understand that my husband doesn't feel the need to shower me with lavish gifts every Christmas, I also assume that he still knows how to use that big brain of his.

I gave birth to a nine pound clone of my husband, celebrated 7 years of marriage, and turned 32 all in the span of four weeks. As each celebratory occasion came and went without so much as a foot rub, I started wondering what wondrous Christmas surprise my husband had planned for me.  Now surely you, my sensible audience, can understand that I was expecting something in the ballpark of a Mercedes Benz this holiday season. Or an island. An island would do.

Christmas morning arrived and I patiently waited for Amelia to open all her gifts so I could guiltlessly tear into mine. I had visions of shimmering diamonds and crisp airline tickets to Bora Bora; perhaps a newly discovered galaxy named after yours truly. And there it was, placed so delicately under the tree---a perfectly wrapped box with the fanciest of bows, just waiting to be opened and loved. Ladies and gentlemen, there are no words.

I introduce to you the Beebo! In case the picture isn't self-explanatory, my highly anticipated gift is a hot pink rubber tit that holds a bottle of milk. I assume it comes hands-free so one can conveniently smack their husband upside the head for buying the Beebo in the first place. Really, Matthew? You saw this and thought of me? Were you thinking of gift ideas one night and this just came to you in a vision, like, "I think my high maintenance wife would love to dangle this atrocity from her shoulder! Surely it would improve her quality of life if she didn't have to hold a bottle with her actual hand!"

Fast forward two weeks and that stupid rubber hooter is still sitting in its box, taunting me. I load Millie into the car and head to Springfield to meet my friends and their children at Skyzone Trampoline Park, and Matt stays home with Greta and the Beebo. It's been about, oh, say two years, give or take, since I've really broken a good sweat, but I figure now, seven weeks postpartum, is as good a time as any. I'm feeling limber and spry as I glance upon the ten foot basketball hoop at the end of the trampoline. I say to myself, "Surely after that McDonald's lunch and with this extra thirty pounds of baby weight I'm carrying, I can slam dunk the hell out of this basketball!"

Nope. No, I couldn't.

I got about three feet of air, threw the ball wildly at the net, and heard an ominous "pop" that I can only compare to the opening of a Pringles' can. Holding my ankle in the fetal position, I rolled around the trampoline while a group of bored kids stared at me, impatiently waiting their turn.

I'm back home limping, terrified to go to the hospital for an X-ray because patients with influenza A (this year's dominating strain) are surely gathered by the hundreds there. Then, like some sort of sick joke, Amelia has a snow day. So here I am, watching my six-year-old screech out an Alicia Keyes' tune because I don't have the heart to tell Amelia that her singing parallels my slam-dunking abilities, all the while trying to alternate ice and heat on my Shrek foot and feed the baby. Ugh, if only I had an extra hand!

Oh.You.Have.Got.To.Be.Kidding.Me.

That damn Beebo is now strapped on my chest. If my foot weren't so swollen, I'd be putting it in my mouth.

And Greta Makes Four

First it was the skinny jeans. I've been waiting ever so patiently for that stupid trend to run its course. Unless one has the legs of a praying mantis,  a tapered ankle does no one any favors.  My body, you see, was meant for wide flare jeans. Back in the day, when I was feeling particularly svelte or right after a bad bout of the stomach flu, I would even shimmy into a daring pair of bootcuts.  But the jegging? Hell to the no.

Now, as I online shop with a sleeping baby on my chest, I'm reminded of THIS year's stupidest new trend: the off-the-shoulder-shirt.  You've got to be freaking kidding me. The only thing wider than my hips are my shoulders. I'll be sure to pick up one of these blouses next time I'm going for the whole "I-belong-on-the-fifty-yard-line" look. I don't think I can properly relay my hatred for these neckless, shapeless blouses and this whole shoulder-cleavage movement. I can only hope that it passes by the time Greta is out of onesies.

You see, I gave birth to a mini-linebacker three weeks ago. My darling Greta Louise is once again the spitting image of her father (go figure).

Unfortunately, the good Lord decided to bless her with my shoulders. As she was making her grand entrance into the world, she went and found herself in a bit of a sticky situation (no pun intended). Her shoulder became stuck, and as a result, Greta's collarbone was fractured in the process of childbirth. Apparently this is a common complication for larger-than-average babies, though the nurses seemed surprised that it happened to her larger-than-average mother. 

By tucking her arm into her shirt or pinning her sleeve, the break should heal in no time.

Look at the size of that hand! 

Amelia was over-the-moon excited to welcome her little sister. (She wanted to take a picture of Greta to school so all her classmates could see, but she was  also very concerned they would think she was born with only one arm.) Unfortunately, all of the excitement and anxiousness soon turned to annoyance as she realized Greta was now a permanent fixture in our lives.

"I want Greta to go back to where she came from," she told me the other day.

"Back in my stomach?" I asked in response.

"No, to where she was before that," Amelia answered.

************************************************

The baby just blew out her diaper, so, uhhh,

Stay tuned....

This Too Shall Pass

I've always wondered what it would feel like to have a thigh gap. I often think of this when I meander into the wrong store, suddenly aware that the only thing they sell in my size are the purses. I look at the ladies whose legs are the same circumference as PVC pipes, and I find myself so intrigued. I mean, does the wind just tunnel through? And is it hard to stay warm in the winter?

For most of my life, if you asked me what I hated most about my body, I would undoubtedly say my thighs. No matter how much weight I lost, they were still destined to meet in the middle.

Right now, as I sit here pregnant with my second child, I couldn't give a damn about my stupid thighs. I would deal with all the chafing in the world if I could fix what's going on inside my fractured mind. Move aside, thunder thighs---my brain is now my least favorite body part.

People often ask me why I waited almost six years between children. Were there fertility issues? Was Amelia that difficult? Do I not put out?

When I discovered I was pregnant in 2011, I made the difficult decision to go off my Prozac for the health of my unborn baby.  For thirteen years I relied on medication and cognitive behavioral therapy to cope with the debilitating anxiety and intrusive thoughts that go along with OCD, and in a moment's notice, I quit cold-turkey.

I know I must sound a touch dramatic when I say that OCD is a thief of joy, but it truly robbed me of all peace during my first pregnancy. I was afraid of anyone and anything---afraid I would contract a placenta-crossing disease; afraid I had poisoned the baby after licking an envelope. I know that at times my fears were almost laughable, but OCD took me to the darkest abyss, and it's taken me this long to find the courage to do it all over again.

After much research and discussion with my doctor, I made the decision to remain on Prozac this pregnancy, albeit a much lower dose. It was actually one of the easiest decisions I've ever made. Before all you sanctimonious mothers chime in and tell me all the risks involved, please know that I do more research than a tenured scientist. I'm very well informed.

Now here I am, halfway through my second pregnancy, and once again, I'm slipping. While Prozac has taken off a bit of the edge, OCD and pregnancy hormones are still like water and oil---like Britney and Justin. I shook a man's hand the other day and then was plagued with the fear that he may have had drug residue on it. I spent the rest of the day researching skin absorption rates and checking my blood pressure for fluctuations. How can something be so irrational and yet make so much sense to me?

By the grace of God, I'm going to get through this---I did once before and I will once again. I keep telling myself that 'this, too, shall pass.'  I've even considered getting that motto tattooed on my body, but, you know---hepatitis and flesh-eating bacteria and all that.

I'm trying so hard to see the light at the end of this four and a half month remaining tunnel---where there will be a beautiful newborn baby girl and all the Prozac my little brain desires. And maybe then I can finally get back to hating my thighs.

Blood, Sweat, and Tears

"Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious," my husband announced as I stood, bewildered, in the living room. It took me a moment to realize that what he had actually said was, "What about getting a job?"

I was ready to tell him that Amelia is far too young to join the workforce when I noticed that he was talking to me. A job. J-o-b. The word stuck to the roof of my mouth like peanut butter. Jooooooobbbbbbbb. 

But I'm already a professional Google searcher, I tried to explain. And a Netflix critic. And a chicken finger connoisseur. How much can a girl possibly take on in one day? "I'm not Wonder Woman," I tell him. 

He thinks that my OCD would benefit from some time away from home. I'd no longer be able to research bacteria levels on kitchen sponges between episodes of Game of Thrones. A job would stimulate my brain; light a spark under my well-rested, growing derriere. 

For once, I have to agree with my husband. The worst thing you can give an OCD sufferer is a search engine and time to think. My symptoms lessen when I stay busy; I focus on the task at hand instead of the million catastrophic risks waiting outside my front door. At the time of this conversation, one of scariest scenarios is just days away: Amelia's tonsillectomy.

February 8th finally arrived. There I was, death grip on my rosary with mascara-stained cheeks, staring at a clock that I swore had stopped moving. I could feel every palpitation of my heart, and for a moment, I questioned whether a big ole scaredy-cat like myself had the strength to do much of anything in this life. I looked all around the same-day surgical waiting room and noticed people snoozing and emailing and snacking on protein bars. I found them to be such calm, fascinating creatures. 

These unenlightened individuals apparently hadn't studied the hundreds of complications that can occur with any given surgery: bleeding, allergies to anesthetic agents, cardiac arrest, infection, thrombosis. Perhaps they didn't have the time; perhaps they had jobs. 

Amelia's procedure lasted fifteen minutes, and the next two weeks were long but uneventful--- she bounced back faster than Britney Spears after 2007. Her pain was manageable the entire time, and all she wanted to do was eat and annoy me. 

Fast forward to Wednesday night. Amelia was pretty much back to a normal routine and Matt was on business in South America. As per our nighttime routine when Matt is away, I crated the dog, alarmed the security system, and tucked Amelia in bed beside me. 

She wakes me at midnight asking for a tissue. Half-asleep, I grab one from my nightstand and hand it to her. "The bed feels wet, mommy," she says. "Shhhh," I mumble. "Mommy is just sweating. Go back to bed." 

Three hours later: "Mommy, I need a drink."  Annnnnnd I'm up. I switch on the bathroom light and fill a cup with water. My bed, now slightly illuminated, looks strange to my heavy eyes. 

I wonder for a moment if I've been sweating blood---or maybe Cabernet. Then a light bulb goes off in my groggy head and I realize it's coming from Amelia's mouth and nose---she's having  a post-tonsillectomy complication. I examine her enough to know that most of the blood is dry and she is no longer actively bleeding, so instead of calling an ambulance, I grab my bra and her coat and rush to the emergency room. 

To make a long story short, the bleeding resolved on its own, and Amelia's back at home under my careful observation. It appears this was a one-off (albeit terrifying) episode and is unlikely to happen again. 

So the circus is back in town. Amelia stayed home from school and I'm back on Google. I open the door to grab a UPS package and our new puppy makes a break for it. Here I am, braless and shoeless, chasing our deranged, escaped dog around the house and into our woods while Amelia is standing in the doorway screaming, "Your boobies are jiggling, mom!" and I'm yelling back, "Stop screaming, Amelia!!! You're going to re-bleed!" 

Sometimes I look at my life, and I don't know whether to laugh, cry, or eat more Girl Scout cookies.

Perhaps I'll ask Google.