My “to do” list for last evening…

… note that it is no longer a “honey…do” list as I am now the acting MOB!:

• Sign the family up for new health club membership (even though it isn’t listed anywhere as a New Year’s resolution).
• Hurry home to feed and walk the dog.
• Check on the boys’ homework (already finished!)
• Check on Em… semi-conscious curled up in the fetal position in bed.
• Check on the boys…playing video games reasonably getting along.
• Go to the garage fridge…ponder the merits of soda vs. beer…opt for the former wishing for the latter…granted this is definitely an FOB trait. Em would go for the Merlot.
• Prepare dinner for the family…chicken with ketchup and Pepsi… seriously…this one’s pretty good!
• Check on Em…unconscious.
• Clean up from dinner.
• Feed the cat.
• Take Em’s temperature (99.5)…  I think she was hoping for more?…
• Try to convince her to “take something”.
• Work with Chase on his pinewood derby car…wait!  That’s a dad thing!… and a whole other topic I should write about!
• Break up argument over changing channels during commercials and promptly threaten early bedtimes.
• Drag myself to the computer to post for the MOB.

Just another typical day.

Get well Em!

Cut to the chase:  I lost about 8 pounds, I’m working out 3 times a week at fitness boot camp, and I’m eating much better.  All in all I would give myself a B+. I have by no means reached my final goal which is to have the body of a 25 year-old professional pole dancer but I figure I have to have SOMETHING to work towards for my 50^th birthday.  I hope to lose about 10 more pounds in the next 2-3 months so I can stand naked in front of my husband with confidence and say “You see!  I told you only plastic surgery will fix this.”

At which point he will reply, “So go make an appointment.”

Fishing for compliments has never been one of my strong suits.  Yet, I still always dream of catching the big one – the one where he takes me in his arms and tells me that I am perfect just the way I am and in fact, he loves the cottage cheese texture around my belly button and my smiley c-section scar.  But alas, this is not meant to be in a houseful of boys.  A few years ago, in a desperate moment of which I am not so proud, I actually sidled up to Chase who was innocently playing a video game and asked, “Do you think Mommy is pretty?”  After carefully taking into account my fragile self worth he turned to me and said, “Well, when you dress up for work or a wedding or something like that, you’re kinda pretty.  But right now, not so much.” 

On the bright side, the fact the hubby and brothers don’t play my little game allows me continue to watch Extreme Makeover and Dr. 90210 and fantasize about someone cutting my stomach open, sucking out the insides, and sewing me back together so tight that even my toes look skinnier. 

Ironically I think my reasons for avoiding plastic surgery are perhaps more self-absorbed than my reasons for proceeding with it:

1) People who get elective plastic surgery are shallow people who don’t understand that it’s what’s on the inside that counts. If I got my tummy tucked, I would be one of those shallow people.

2) While the TV reality show people always look 1000 times better after their surgery, I really haven’t seen a live tummy tuck patient in the flesh that looks all that different than they did before. I’m’ just sayin.  If I’m going through all that pain, I better get my 21 year old stomach back.

3) There is always risk with surgery and God forbid something would happen to me, the story would be that I died having my tummy tucked. Tragic in so many ways beyond the obvious fact that I am dead.

There remains the outside chance that another 10 pounds will leave me very happy with tummy.  I would like to wear a bikini this summer and not one where the bottom comes up over my belly button.  Maybe if I go fishing in a bathing suit I’ll have more luck.

Admittedly, I have a ways to go which is why I am giving my best bad-ass look in this picture. Dave was kind enough to serve as photog here — and he took a bunch of other “before” pictures that I may share at some later date (when I have the “after shots” to go with.) But suffice it to say that there is a reeeeeealllly good chance one of the brothers is going to go to school today and report to his teacher that Daddy was taking pictures of Mommy’s butt last night because she asked him to.

But seriously, here is what I have done:

Fitness boot camp. I signed up with personal trainer Kevin Pasquay who puts about 6-8 of us through a one hour circuit three time a week. This workout is no frills and seems to be effective if only for the fact that I can’t walk the next day without some sort of muscle pain. Lots of squats and core strength exercise… of and there is also lots of running tied to elastic bands…. carrying sandbags.

Running. On the days that I am not in Kevin’s torture chamber and I can walk without whimpering, I am running – a two mile course which yesterday I did at an 11:07/mile pace. I hate running. I’m waiting to fall in love with it but it hasn’t taken hold yet.

Healthy eating. – I am not following a particular diet but am using the Weight Watchers principles of high fiber, low fat foods. I have not deviated from this for about 10 days. A friend of mine casually mentioned that he “felt better” when he was a little hungry. I thought about this a lot and realized that I feel the same way. I do not like feeling ravenous but a little edge feels healthy and light. This philosophy helps because I really am a person who loves to eat. Which brings me to my “find” of the month….

Stay with me here because I realize there is a chance I will lose 90 percent of the MoB readers at the next sentence. I am smitten with black bean brownies. Yes, you read correctly and “black beans” is not a euphemism for chocolate chips.

Dave brought this recipe home from a teacher at his school (thanks Tara). Basically, you take a full can of black beans and puree them, being careful to include the syrup in which they are packed. Add this mixture to any brownie mix (we prefer the Ghirardelli brownies, but any will do) and bake as directed. Do not add eggs, oil or water. Just the black beans. I SWEAR YOU WILL NOT KNOW THE DIFFERENCE. And each brownie is so much healthier for you. I have been treating myself to one of these puppies a few times a week.

I know you think this is totally disgusting. But do me a favor – just try it and write into MoB about your experience. Why should you trust me? Because I would not poison our readers – we need more of you, not less.

Any other wild and healthy eating, exercising, weight loss tips? Send em’ along! Ill try it. I’m on a roll!!

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at the close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

-Dylan Thomas

The other day, the boys and I were taking the dog for a walk at the local park. We always take the same route which begins with a massively steep hill, down which the brothers love to sprint. Mark, set, go!

See Noah run down the hill. Noah runs fast. Run, Noah, run.

See Chase run down the hill. Chase runs fast. Run. Run. Run.

See dog run after brothers. Dog is on a leash attached to mother.

See little dog pull mother down the hill. Stop, dog, stop!

See mother fall on her ass and slide down the hill.

Poor, poor mother.

As some of you know, I am not talking about a giant black lab or golden retriever pulling me down this hill. We have a Pug dog that is maybe pushing 13 pounds. I think it is time I have a little come to Jesus with myself. I am not the girl I used to be.

You see in my head, I can still do handsprings on the front lawn. I can climb trees without getting stuck, cross creeks without getting wet and jump fences without impaling myself. I can sprint the fifty yard dash in 7 seconds and still hold the school record for the most sit-ups in one minute. But in reality, cartwheels make me dizzy, my tummy jiggles when I run, and my tiny dog can pull me down a hill.

In exactly 40 days, I will turn 40 years old. And physically I feel myself at a crossroads. Down one road is the Land of Apathy. And it’s a smooooooth ride – all downhill except when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror or some poor sap asks me when my baby is due. The other road is clearly uphill, littered with tons of excuses to try hard to avoid. But the top of that road is where I want to be in my 40^th year.

One of my favorite websites is call Zen Habits. Lots of ways to simplify, motivate, and achieve on these pages. I highly recommend it to all you ponderers out there. One of the suggestions the author Leo Babauta offers again and again when you want to accomplish something is to make a BIG public commitment. Announce to the world that you are going to achieve a certain goal by a certain date. So here goes:

In 40 days I will:

• Have lost 10 pounds
• Be working out vigorously at least 4 times a week
• Have changed my eating habits substantially so that I no longer crave crap

I truly think that I am dreading the big 4-0 because I’m feeling it physically and it scares me. If I felt 25 again, I wouldn’t care.

I promise not to prattle endlessly to you about my diet or workouts but I will provide occasional updates, rants, and musings on the process. And come my 40^th, I’ll come clean as to how I did. Anyone want to join me? There is plenty of room on these pages to make a promise to yourself.

Mark. Set. Go.

Noah came down with the Mork from Ork sore throat on Saturday night. You know the one that comes with horrible referred pain in your ear when you swallow? The only relief is to stick your finger in your ear and apply significant pressure…every time you swallow…which happens a lot. It’s a goofy gesture that is reminiscent of something Mork would do. Shazbot indeed! My Mom named this malady back in the late 70′s when I would come down with a Mork from Ork a few times each year. The doctors have a less technical name for this affliction: Strep.

So, as Dave and I were getting ready to go see Tropic Thunder aroun 7:00 p.m., I watch Noah pull the Mork maneuver demonstrated above. The sitter had yet to arrive so I did what every mother who hasn’t been out in over three weeks would do. I dosed him up with Motrin and high-tailed it out of the house. Great movie.

But what’s comes around climbs into your bed at 3:00 a.m. with a raging fever, and swollen glands at which point you become Dr. Mom, MD, and triage expert extraordinaire. As your husband remains in a deep coma, you provide more Motrin, a cold cloth for the head, and you start amoxicillin because you NEVER finish the ten day dosage from the last time the kid had strep. I have a pretty good stash….you know in case of a homeland emergency…or a Sunday.

The next morning I call our pediatrician anyhow because she should probably prescribe a fresh set of orange pills.

Me: Noah has a really bad sore throat, a fever of 101, and ear pain. I’m giving him Motrin. Can we get him started on antibiotics? I have the pharmacy number right….

Doc: No, we really should see him and do a test. We don’t want him to build up a resistance unnecessarily. It could be viral. Just keep him on the Motrin and I’ll see him tomorrow.

Me: It’s strep. I know. Its classic (I didn’t use the Mork terminology as I didn’t think it would help my credibility as a member of the medical community.)

Doc: Just wait. It’s better for him.

Me: (grumble)

We waited. I stopped the contraband dosage. Noah suffered. And yesterday morning, the rapid strep test came back positive. I felt bad that my kid had to deal with it 24 hours longer than necessary but I suppose the doctor knows best. At least he got the control of the family room remote – that made him happy. His brother, not so much.

Chase: Why does Noah get the remote? You are being sooooo much better to him!

Me: He has STREP THROAT.

Chase: When do I get a turn with the remote??

Me: On Wednesday. When you come down with it. Promise, my love.

Nanoo. Nanoo.

I know the abdominal surgery is not a competition but somehow I made it one. I decided that I was going to be the best oophorectomy patient ever. This goal required me to be as friendly as possible to all hospital staff. I was sure to say please and thank you to EVERYONE. I even cracked a few jokes along the way. (Like remarking to the O.R. nurse who brought me a warm blanket that this place was better than a spa!) She thought that was funny. For some reason, I thought that the friendlier patients would get the best service. Like at a restaurant. If they liked me, they wouldn’t kill me by accident or anything like that.

It turns out I was in fine hands with my doc. I did not mention this in my previous post because it was wigging me out a bit, but the guy who cut me open and took out one of my ovaries graduated from Penn the same year as me. We didn’t know this until Dave and I saw him in his office a few weeks ago and Dave had on his Penn T-Shirt.

Doc: Hey! Did you go to Penn?

Dave: Yup.

Doc: What year?

Dave: 1990.

Doc: Me, too. I was a Sig Ep.

Dave: I was PIKA.

Awesome, dude. (That was me thinking)

So while I was actually glad that I didn’t know him at Penn (or at least didn’t remember him), the last person I wanted opening me up was a guy who (chances are) got plastered in the same bar that I did, even back in the day. I wanted Marcus Welby or even Doogie Howser. And somehow the universe had given me a Sig Ep brother. There were a few people I could have asked for more information about him – but decided I really didn’t want to know.

So I am convalescing, which means I get the remote control to the TV and ALL my food brought up to me to eat in bed. It also means my Mom has come to help. Dave is a great nurse and has been very attentive and wonderful. But he is not my mother. When I was little and sick, Mom would ply me with a cool wash cloths on my forehead, serve ginger ale with a straw and toast with apple jelly, and every time I would get up to go to the bathroom, she would “freshen up” my bed and re-fluff my pillows.

This time around she made me a grilled cheese and suggested that I might want to take a shower. (Hmmm – you can’t be looking or smelling too good when your mother asks.) So I hobbled to the shower, and it made me feel like a human being for the first time in 24 hours. I made it back to my bedroom doing my little Yoda shuffle and there was my bed all “freshened up” with the pillows fluffed and ready for me to climb in and fall asleep again.

I love my Mom. And I’m going to be fine.

So instead of going to Turks and Caicos this summer, I will be traveling to the island of Sutures and Percocet.

The good news: I should be fine. The doc doesn’t think the bigger-than-a-golf-ball size mass on my ovary is going to be anything scary and getting the whole thing outta there will give me tremendous peace of mind.

The bad news: I have mass on my ovary that is BIGGER THAN A FREAKING GOLF BALL and they are going to knock me out, cut me open, remove one of my favorite organs of all time, and send it to a pathologist who will systematically return a result that will send my life back down its current, happy path or off on some horrible trajectory.

Or to summarize, this sucks, but it could get be worse.

But again, I am going to be fine.

I already have lots of funny things to share about this surgery. In fact, I made a list which I was planning to share today. But somehow on the day before I’m going to kiss my boys goodbye and put my life in the hands of someone who knows very little about me as a person, wife and mother (no matter how many women have gone before me), I don’t feel very funny. At all.

So please wait for me. By my next post, the Percocet will have kicked in and I’ll be all about funny. Promise. Be back soon.