Life in the Pickle Jar

TRAILBLAZING

2012-01-04T09:44:00.001-06:00

I'm realizing that we haven't really gone out of my way to create any new traditions for our family. I'm not even talking about exciting ones. Year in, year out it's always the same. Predictable about sums it up. Sure there are the birthday cakes and overly decorated Christmas cookies; traditions carried out year after year without so much as a second thought and which, come to think of it, are pretty much no brainers. I mean it's not like I can hide behind my pocket bible and lay claim to a secret Jehovah's Witness brotherhood for backup. It's all been pre-programmed to happen automatically as if without even a second thought, a heartbeat away from instinct. Well, all except those pesky little things like anniversaries, which if you read my last post and are still following, you're scratching your head wondering how I'm not in jail for that attemted homicide. But back to my point: traditions, or rather lackthereof. What's a gal to do? Here I am, a pilgrim (okay, not really but well, maybe just a little bit Mayflower) in a new land, I need to get my act together and figure this out fast so my kids don't end up having to dig their way out of the identity chasm we've created for them; credit card in one hand and botijo in the other.

January 1, 2012 a new trail was blazed, albeit almost by mistake. On a quest to tire the kids out for siesta, we took them up into the Parque Natural de la Sierra de Hornachuelos and started climbing. Not an easy feat when you're schlepping a toddler hipside but I managed. The views were stellar and the fresh air and sunshine did wonders for us all, though mainly me. I was finally able to let go of the grudge-turned-grief for the anniversary that never was and leave it atop the rosemary peppered ridge. What better way to ring in a brand new year than ascending paradise and tossing your baggage cliffside? So I'm resolving to make a hike like this every New Year's Day; a family tradition to set each year off with a clear and better view from the day/year before.

What new traditions have you brought to your family?

REAL MADRID CAN BITE ME

2011-12-29T16:15:00.000-06:00

I didn't have high hopes for this year's anniversary. It's kind of hard to when there's no prayer of a babysitter and your anniversary happens to fall between two of the biggest holidays of the year. Nope, no 'high hopes' at all which is a good thing since my ~~better~~ other half seems to have completely blown the damned thing off.

Oh wait, do I sound bitter?
Do I have a tone?
Edgy perhaps?
Snarky even?

Try fucking pissed. Yeah, try that one.

No, it wasn't our Silver or Golden Anniversary. What's the traditional gift for ten years of ~~putting up with~~ loving each other? Really? A sink full of dirty dishes, a filthy bathroom and a sack full of rotting trash to take out? Wow. I had no idea. And to think of the money I could've saved at the new Outdoor Sportsman shop that just went up in the pueblo...

I could've dropped a hint, a gentle reminder. Yeah, I could'a done that. Oh no, wait a minute. I DID. Like three times this week. So when night falls and there's not even a congratulatory sticky note on the fridge to say Babe, we made it! Thanks...

...for the three kids you birthed
...for sticking out a rough couple of years financially
...for being there to say goodbye to loved ones
...for the last TEN YEARS worth of foul smelling laundry that has been cleaned, folded and put away

You can bet your sweet ass that I'm pissed. And for the record, it makes no difference in the world to me whether or not Madrid won or not. Red card for you, Mr. Picklepits.

RED CARD FOR YOU!

'TIS THE SEASON

2011-12-12T06:37:00.000-06:00

It's been a while, hasn't it? Rest assured all is well in the pueblo and with Christmas fast approaching we are beginning to get into the spirit of things. I really thought I was going to miss snow, having spent the past three plus decades frozen stiffer than Walt Disney from October to April. Alas, that is not the case. No, not the case at all in fact I can tell I'm acclimating to the Andalusian version of winter when I complain about sub fifty degree days.

I came across this video purely by chance the other day that I want you all to see. For some time now I've been trying to figure out a way to explain what this move to the pueblo has meant for me...for us but I was always short on explanation. Long on feeling but short, very short on explanation. Well, this snippet really does a fine job of articulating what we've found since our arrival here. Or perhaps better put, what we've found we can live without.

Still, life in the pueblo doesn't come without its quirks. Take today for example. We took the kids into the grocery store to stock up for the weekend before the whole damned town shuts down for Sunday. Anyway, we're not in the store more than five minutes when I notice a customer in the checkout line chasing his holiday pastry down with a shot of Christmas Cheer. I smiled politely, said my 'hola' as is customary to do regardless of whether or not you've ever met the person, and then made a sharp turn down the aisle with my grocery cart full of screaming kids.  What was that all about?  My brain imploded under the weight of questions like, "Gee, I wonder if they have an international chapter of Alcoholics Annonymous?' and "Dude, can't you wait 'til you get home to start with that shit?' I mean it wasn't even close to time for comida and this guy was chuggin' away like it was his last Christmas. Geez.

But whatever. To each his own, right?  As we finished up at the butcher's counter I got the kids to distract The Grinch so I could sneak some traditional Christmas goodies into the cart and then we made our way back up to the ~~bar~~ checkout.

Hmmmm, interesting. "I think the gentleman forgot part of his purchase," I offered.
Checkout Girl: "No, no. He got everything. I made sure of it! I packed his bags myself."
Me: "But his 'spirits'. The bottle's still here. And look, there's still about half of it left."
Checkout Girl: (Giggles) "Aaah, no, no, no. That's ours."
Me: Come again? "Excuse me?"
Checkout Girl: "It's for everyone. Here!" (pours me a generous shot)
Me: "Uhm..."
Checkout Girl: "Go ahead, chug it! It's Christmastime!"
Me: "Uhm...okay, thanks!?"
Checkout Girl: "It's just our little way of spreading the holiday cheer."

And then it dawned on me. 100 proof liquor has that effect on me in case you didn't know. The Spanish just may be onto something. Well, at least the ones from my pueblo. We may not have Black Friday. Our Christmas lights didn't go up until just this week. And there isn't one bell guilting me into making a donation on my way out of Target, Costco or the grocery store. But nonetheless, there is still an overwhelming feeling of Christmas. In spite of the obvious lack of marketing we feel the presence of Christmas spirit more than ever this year.

And I'm not just talking 'bout the liquid spirits.

REINA SOFIA HAS CF

2011-10-21T05:00:00.000-05:00

I'm sorry but I just wanna tuck those puffed out
curls behind her ears each & every time I see her.

In case you're not up to speeed on your Who's Who of reigning monarchs, let me intoduce you to Reina Sofia. Reina Sofia means a lot in this country. First off, she's the queen of Spain and a pretty likeable gal from what I can gather although I do think it's high time she updated her hairstyle. But let's face it, when you're the queen you get certain perks no matter what your hair looks like. As you probably guessed, Reina Sofia has a lot of things named after her: streets, parks, airports, and tons of buildings. Even the hospital that we go to in Cordoba for our quarterly CF clinic is named for Her Majesty. Hence, the title of this post. No, the queen of Spain does not have cystic fibrosis however the hospital named for her does~an entire unit in fact. And that is where we found ourselves earlier this month.

Two weeks post visit and I'm now cursing myself for not having taken ~~better~~ notes because quite honestly, it's all kind of a blur. Three squabbling kids squished into a doctor's office has that effect on me, ya' know? But there were some noteable differences that are worth a mention.

1. THERE IS INDEED AN "I" IN TEAM

Dr. Cowboy caught the wheeze and prescribed
one puff of Seratide before each vest session
over a three week period.

Dr. Cowboy is our pulmonologist. That's not really his name but whip out your Spanish 101 notes and I'll bet you can figure it out. Anyway, he's like the captain of the CF team for us; the main guy we see and the one who runs the show. He interviewed us and logged copious notes into the computer about the kids' health history and then he sat down with each of them to take a listen. When he was finished he handed me two sealed medical packages: the swabs for their throat cultures. At first I was a little taken aback. Me? I have to gag them? You can't be serious, I'll screw it up. I'll puncture a lung or pierce a vocal chord. Thoughts like these raced through my mind while my brain was trying to translate, that's your fucking job, buddy minus the obscenities into Spanish. Alas, no translation needed. We were to take the culture kit down to the lab. The kids would get their throat cultures done there. Hmmmm.... interetesting, I thought. And then we were given a two inch stack of medical orders and told where to go to get each one done.

So much for getting out of the
'homework' assignment.

Our visit with Dr. Cowboy was a quick one. But our time in the hospital, not so much. The time we would have spent waiting in our old CF clinic routine was spent walking long, white corridors looking for faraway laboratories and hidden specialty offices. I still haven't figured out how all the players come together - but for the time being it appears that technology links them. When we entered the office of the GI doc, the first thing she did was pull up Dr. Cowboy's notes from twenty minutes prior. She did her own dog and pony show, entered the new data and gave us our homework: collect three day's worth of fecal matter for each child and bring it back so labs can be run. Oh but Good Doctor, they're pancreatic sufficient! Best check those notes again....


2. TAKE A NUMBER
Spain will forever be the country of 'manana'. Why do today what you can put off til tomorrow? I'll never get it, being of good German stock this mindset drives me nuts. As we were running all over Reina Sofia (the hospital not the Queen) there arose a common theme: la vuelta (the return). Every stop was just that, a stop. We took our number, waited the fifteen minutes to be seen and when it was finally our turn we were able to go in to make an appointment to come back.

Labs? See you on Friday morning!
GI? Catch you after labs!
Radiology? We'll be there..how's Friday for you?

On one hand it was frustrating to me that clinic seems to be so compartmentalized here; each entity doing it's own thing on it's own schedule and I had to remind myself that it's not wrong, just...different. Yet on the other hand I left each doctor feeling as though we were in really good hands, dealing with the experts in their field which helped me to swallow the inconvenience pill that comes with living in a pueblo 45 minutes away from Cordoba.

3. OUR FREE LUNCH
Dr. Cowboy was very interested in how CF clinic was run in the States. He asked about the frequency of our visits, which turns out to be the same here - every three months unless something comes up. He asked about who made up the members of the care team, which again is much the same except there is no pharmacologist on team here. And he asked about medications and the protocol in using them.

Then, very slowly he leaned over and said, "I want you to understand something very important. Very important."

I was on the edge of my chair. Charlie and Lola were taking turns jumping off of the exam table and Henry was unrolling gauze pads by the meter. We were about to be denied, banned or exiled I wasn't sure which but it was serious from Cowboy's tone.

"You will not pay for medication here.  Do you understand?"

Uhm, no. Actually, I don't because it's like a billion dollars back where we live...you know, in the Land of Milk and Honey where everyone is blond haired and blue eyed and drives a little red Corvette. "Excuse me?" I managed.

"Cystic Fibrosis is a chronic and life threatening disease. You will have a standing order at the hospital pharmacy for each child's prescription needs."

"How much is the copay?"

"The what?"

"Copay," I repeated. "The part that we are responsible for."

"There is no copay for these medications. As you run out, you will come in to Reina Sofia and refill your order. We're not here to make a profit. We're here to treat a disease."

I was speechless but managed to kick Joe's foot, my signal for him to confirm that I hadn't misinterpreted anything. We would later learn that prescription coverages vary depending upon which region in Spain you live in. In Andalucia, the regional government has funded a healthcare plan that covers prescription costs for chronic diseases such as cystic fibrosis. Not funded in Andalucia's plan however is The Vest. Patients here use other pep devices such as the Acapella and the Flutter in combination with manual cpt.

Having access to free medication almost seemed too good to be true. Was Hypertonic Saline available? TOBI? Pulmozyme? Azithromycin? When should we expect to start Charlie on the next batch of drugs? I asked Cowboy what our protocol would be under the team's guidelines.

"Your children are uniquely yours. Charlie is different from Lola just as Lola is different from Charlie in spite of them having the same genetic make up for this disease," he began. "I do not feel comfortable starting either Charlie or Lola on a new drug just because they have a birthday. I want to know first how their bodies are handling this disease, what it looks like for them. I want to study their chest xrays, review their labs and get a baseline of where we are now before we jump into a change of plan."

I was silent, liking what I was hearing but still a bit paranoid that we might miss out on a more preventative approach to their care.

"If you're concerned about the availability of these treatmenet options, don't be. We have access to them when we're ready for them," he continued. "Let's keep a few things in our back pocket for the time being while we figure out where each child is. Is that fair enough?"

"Yes. Yes, it is." We nodded in unison and explained to Cowboy that while we want to be very aggressive in a proactive approach we struggle with the possibility of over medicating the kids and as a result are very much interested in trying a more holistic approach before jumping immediately to drugs.  Cowboy listened, we talked some more and closed things by confirming that clinic had our contact information for the pending lab results.

By the end of our first clinic visit, I felt good with where we had landed. I felt like Cowboy had listened to us, heard us and in the end it just felt like a good fit. As with every clinic visit though, I was completely fried. Clinic visits take a lot out of me physically, mentally and emotionally each and every time. There's the early rising, the anticipation, the planning - so much going into it all to make it as worthwhile and thorough for the kids as possible. And in spite of the differences, which were really just that - differences - no better no worse, there was a constant. That is to say, the constant of knowing that the team members who are dedicated to helping us fight cystic fibrosis for the sake of our children want to give us The Best.   Make no mistake, I'm not talking the best American care or the best Spanish care but rather The Best CF Care.

And for that we are very, very grateful.

A MINOR DETAIL

2011-10-15T09:48:00.000-05:00

Well folks, sorry to be the Debbie Downer but it appears that even Paradise has its issues.

There we were, bright and early on Monday morning running around like maniacs trying to get ready for the school day. So typically us. Kids were (barely) up and (sort of) dressed, plugged in to their vests and well into their treatment session as I was elbows deep into a dirty diaper and Joe was juggling the breakfast order alongside the school snack order. Not bad for a quarter after 7 on a school day, I thought.
Then the power went out.

We fumbled a bit, then scrambled, and finally recovered managing to get out the door in time for the walk in to school. Not the best start to a Monday but we pulled it together.

Tuesday was better, the week taunting us to pick up the pace somewhat.
And then the power went out.

Wednesday came and we joked about what time we'd lose light. Joe chuckled as he buttered the toast. I managed a laugh as I doled out the breathing treatments.
Then the power went out.

Okay, so maybe not so funny any more. We were quick to notice that it wasn't just our house, not just our block, hell, not even just our neighborhood. It was indeed the whole damned pueblo!

Thursday the same.
Friday too.
And don't forget Saturday or Sunday.

What the hell?

Every single day for the past eight days there has been a power outage for the entire pueblo. It's short lived, ten minutes tops. And it is reliable, always at 7:24AM. But what gives? What's the issue? I wouldn't have ever dared to call the pueblo third world but come on how, this was getting a little ridiculous.

So, as I imagined a good Spanish wife would do, I sent the husband out to get to the bottom of it at the neighborhood bar. Seriously, where else? Nothing gets answers faster than a bar full of soccer fans and a few rounds of San Miguel (beer). Now, just so you know, going out to get some answers is not an in-and-out kinda deal least of all on a soccer night. This would likely be an all nighter for me, which was fine. I had a lighter and candles at arm's reach and my glass of wine within the other arm's reach so I was prepared. And just as I had surmised, some four hours later he came home with the full scoop; as it turns out, the one and only thing for which I was not prepared.

Rather than bore you with the four hour version, I'll just cut to the chase. First off, no one in the whole freakin' bar even flinched when he brought up the pueblo's power 'issue'.
What 'issue'?
What are you talking about?
Huh?
They just stared at him blankly, silently willing him to shut the hell up so they could concentrate on the game.

The electricity.

Dude, what are you talking about? What about the electricity?

The fact that every day we have none for a ten minute spell. What's the deal?

Ohhhh...THAT. Suddenly, the game was of no consequence and they took some pity on the new guy. You'll get used to it. In fact, you can pretty much set your watch to it. Wait til winter when it's out for a couple of days.

Come again?

Oh yeah, last winter it went out for two whole days. Juan Carlos lost a week's worth of business because his freezer stock went bad and he had to dump it all.

Pardon me, but are you fucking kidding me?

You guys are living up in the new part of town, right? Well, it's not gonna be so bad for you guys. Just the ten minutes or so every morning when the pueblo wakes up. It's the unlucky saps in the old part of town that really have it bad, going for a few days at a time like that. Don't worry though, you'll get used to it.

We'll get used to it. Uhm, no. I'm thinking this is something that I probably won't get used to. I can get used to wearing shoes that pinch my toes. Or I can get used to drinking luke warm coffee when I so prefer it scalding hot. Hell, I might even be able to get used to everybody shouting at me as if I'm deaf becasue they think that if they speak louder I'll somehow understand all those colloquial phrases and inside jokes. But no, living without a reliable energy source is not something I plan on getting used to. I mean come on, we're well past the millenium folks. Shit, my Nepalese student, the ones who's cousin was a Sherpa, had more reliable power than this. I mean don't get me wrong, I think it's really cool and even a bit convenient that it happens to go out at the same time every day but there's a lot of shit that goes down regularly that I don't think we should tolerate just because no one has the wherewithall to fix the situation.

So now added to my to-do list of
1. informing the universe about cystic fibrosis
2. writing and getting a grant to get computers (notice I said get computers not get new computers) for the pueblo's elementary school and
3. running a marathon
is
4. stirring the shit up enough to get a revolution brewing so we can get the mayor/taxi driver to push for an update to the power grid which means at least two though preferably three to four new power transformers to replace the current ones which as we speak are about 40 years out of date.

And they say that Stay at Home Moms don't work.

IT TAKES A VILLAGE TO RAISE AN IDIOT

2011-10-01T17:21:00.001-05:00

I have no idea but for whatever reason, I've been off by a day all week long. Monday was actually Sunday. Tuesday was Wednseday. Wednesday was Tuesday. And by week's end I was ready to commit myself. That is, if the rest of the pueblo didn't commit me first. This is a Three Act Drama so be patient.

ACT 1: Set in the middle of Calle de los angeles in front of Mohammed, the lone Morrocan guy's, discount shop. Keke (track coach and sometimes firefighter) rolls up to Village Idiot (played by me).

Keke: Hey! How's it going? We've missed you at RunClub this past week, everything alright?
Village Idiot: We're hanging in there. We've had a house full of sick kids. Nothing major, just a nasty cold but it's knocked everyone out. That, and then there's the car.
Keke: The car?
Village Idiot: Well, our car has finally arrived at the port but now it's a matter of how long it will be tied up in customs. Joe will likely be heading to Valencia early next week to pick it up.
Keke: That's great, isn't it?
Village Idiot: Well yeah, except it means I'll probably have to miss one or two more practices.
Keke: Oh, don't worry about it. You know where to find us. We'll look forward to seeing you towards the end of the week. Are you running today?
Village Idiot: (Thinking he's referring to the race in Sevilla that actually occurred the night before) Me? Oh no. I can't, no car. Remember?
Keke: (Looking quizzically) Uh, yeah. Right, no car. Well, we'll see you later in the week. Take care...
Village Idiot: You too. Oh and have a great time (referring to last night's race in Sevilla)!

ACT II: Set about 200 meters down the block from the encounter with Keke. Fellow teammate, Miguel, and his family drive by, honk and wave to Village Idiot.

Village Idiot: Hey (waving spastically)! You guys heading out now?
Teammate: (smiles) Yeah. We're on our way.
Village Idiot: Well have a fantastic time! Good luck!
Teammate: (pauses, smile fades) Uh, yeah. Okay.
Village Idiot: It's gonna be great, you'll see! Take lots of pictures for me, okay? Bye!!
Teammate: (nods and waves) Adios...

ACT III: Set at the Village Idiot's house later that afternoon. Paqui drops by for a quick visit.

Village Idiot: So what time are you heading out?
Paqui: Heading out? For where?
Village Idiot: For Sevilla.
Paqui: Sevilla?
Village Idiot: The race, silly. Aren't you running tonight?
Paqui: You mean 'ran'. The race was last night.
Village Idiot: But I just saw Keke and Miguel heading out of town. We just talked about it.
Paqui: Well, I don't know what you talked about but I'm telling you that the race was last night. I was there, trust me. And so were they. I rode in Miguel's car for crying out loud.
Village Idiot: Then where were they going if it wasn't the race?
Paqui: Someone died, a mutual friend I think. They were on their way to the funeral.

Close curtain.

SIX DEGREES OF PUEBLO

2011-09-30T04:45:00.000-05:00

Alas, the pueblo. Village seems too small and dare I say, Medieval and city, well, as we hover at 5,000, that is far too big a word for here. So pueblo it is. Given it's relatively small size, I've concluded that it's made up of all of about ten families plus us, Los Americanos. How can ten families be 5,000 strong you ask? Why, marriage of course.

Take, for example, my friend and neighbor Paqui. Paqui is married to Pedro, an Archie Bunker kinda guy minus the bigot. Her cousin, Pili is married to Pablo and they live two doors down, right in front of our place. Pili is a painter and Pablo is a plumber and together they have a little girl, Ana, Henry's age. Every Friday night Paqui, Pedro, Pili, Pablo and a dozen or more other family members gather on the front patio of Pili and Pablo's house for drinks and laughs. Pablo's brother, Oli(ver), usually pops by with his wife, Gema, who happens to be Paqui and Pili's cousin. Not to be left out, Beatriz and her crew are good for at least every other Friday night. Beatriz's husband is Juan and Juan's sister is a sister-in-law to Oliver's other brother, Rafa.

Nevermind rereading it, just be glad you don't have to try to remember all of it.

So I tried to circumvent the obvious confusion brought about by the intermingled family ties by instead focusing on the Who's-Who of the pueblo; the key players if you will, the Don Corleones if there ever was such a thing which only led to further confusion when I learned that...

the mayor is the taxi driver, out on leave until her term is up
the baker is the goat herder
the hair dresser is the real estate agent
the auto mechanic is the taxidermist
the police chief is the grocer
the plumber is the insurance agent
and finally, lest we forget the banker
who is actually the bartender but only on Friday nights.

And somehow, though I haven't quite got it all worked out yet, they're all related to Paqui.

ALL WHINE, NO ROSES

2011-09-16T03:43:00.000-05:00

We're in and we're settled. Settled that is, for the most part. So before I pen another Why Spain is the Best Country on the Planet, and risk yet another pair of rolling eyeballs I thought this post to be the perfect moment to tell you what it is I miss most from back home. Be forewarned however, that I said what, not who. No need to pack any bags for a guilt trip that I'm not taking for failure to mention friends and family. That my dears, is an entirely different topic on which to blog.

LO QUE MAS ECHO DE MENOS~WHAT I MISS MOST

1. HABANERO PEPPERS     With tomatoes at 56 centimos a kilo (that's about $0.75 for two pounds worth), I'm dying for my homemade salsa, I mean DYING. That bitch'll put hair on your nipples, more if you've already got it. And no, it isn't for the meek. It's HOT. Fire in, Fire out kinda hot if you know what I mean. And I miss it. The produce here is out of this world; every color of the rainbow and picked fresh they day before. But to date I have not found my habaneros and those (notice the plural) are the key, once secret, ingredient to my salsa. I may have to go underground and have some of you mail me seed packets. Surely the drug dogs don't sniff for produce now do they?

2. FRAMED PORTRAITS     There are exactly four pieces that Joe promised that he would pack in the minivan which was to be shipped first. I made him swear up and down and inside out that he'd pack those pictures. You know where this is going now, don't you. The first three of the bunch are my babies, my naked babies; each of them at 8 mos. perched and cooing from their makeshift throne, an oversized antique ceramic wash basin. They look like triplets, distinguishable only by a dimple or a roll. I spent 99 cents on each 10x12 picture and a small fortune for the matching frames and I don't regret one red cent. Now the fourth portrait, that's another story. That was the studio session that ended in us practically having to take out a second mortgage on the house but netted us the coolest picture of the three that I own so I guess it's a pill I can swallow. Oh how I miss those pictures. And oh how Joe will miss his balls when I cut them off because he forgot to pack them in the minivan. Where are they?   The pictures people, the pictures.  They're in a storage facility deep in the heart of Hurricane Row: Charleston, South Carolina. Lord help the man if the humidity eats my babies. And I mean that of course in the nicest, most sincere Lorena Bobbit kind of way.

3. MY BED     Spain is great. Spain is The Best. Rah-rah-rah-blah-blah-blah. But you know what? Spanish beds fucking suck. First of all they're not beds, they're cots. And jeez-oh-Pete do they suck. They're one step up from option B which is sleeping on the tile floor. Coils in my back all night long is one thing but apparently I'm considered "Amazonian" at 5' 8" because none of the beds in this house are long enough for me. I sleep like Andre the Giant, my feet dangling off the end of the bed. This is particularly troubling to me as you'll recall the post where I mentioned having to make the bed before I get into it? Well, when one's feet have no other choice but to go numb from the ankles down all night, there really is no point in hospital corners now is there? And don't get me started on the pillows either. In Spain the bed has one pillow, a uni-pillow if you will. I know I'm not the only flip for the cold side sleeper out there. Well, when you're sharing the uni-pillow with your partner who has a thirty pound head, it makes the flip impossible. Pillow my ass. The damned thing looks more like an oversized hot dog bun than it does a pillow.

Well, there you have it, my rant. Such a nasty little word, rant, isn't it? Regardless, it's nothing that a seed packet, a knife (sorry, honey) & a bottle of w(h)ine can't fix.

Right?

SWIMMING WITH THE GESTAPPO

2011-08-26T10:03:00.000-05:00

Have I mentioned yet that Cordoba in August is hot? I´m not talking the kind of hot where you can fry an egg on the sidewalk. I´m talking the kind of hot where you can fry an egg and an entire slab of bacon on your own ass from the comfort and let´s not forget privacy of your home because no matter how high you´ve got that AC cranked up, it´s still so mo´fo hot that your boobs are withered up like two little raisins and stuck to your ribs as all mommy boobs do, the sweat is not just dripping but pouring down your ass crack a la Niagra Falls and lunchtime is still an hour away - not that you´re looking forward to it because it means having to go into the non air conditioned one port hole-in-the-wall room that someone decided would be a perfect place to design a kitchen! THAT my friends is hot. And that is Cordoba in August.

When we discovered the Piscina Municipal de Cordoba, we said to hell with the 30 square foot apartment that doubles as a dutch oven and packed up the family to take refuge at the city pool. It´s barely a twelve minute walk from the flat but when the mercury is cracking 100 before noon it makes that twelve minutes feel like twelve hours. We urged the kids on with promises of cannon balls and ice cream and before we knew it we were there. Sweating our asses off, but there and ready to swim.

Try as I might, I just couldn't get Henry
to flip good ole' Pedro the bird.

The facility is truly an oasis in the midst of the desert that is Cordoba in the summertime. The main pool is designed in the shape of the letter U, approximately 25 meters on all three of the straightaways. Rather than a smooth poured cement bottom, there were tiny royal blue ceramic tiles laid in place. This in my opinion, was ingenious on the part of the architect. There could be twenty gallons of fecal matter bubbling up from the bottom of the pool and you´d see me diving in headfirst with a toothy grin. The ceramic tiles gave the water a bluer than blue appearance which in a word was hypnotizing. So in we staggered, peeling off a a sandal here, a t-shirt there...one foot in front of the other just trying to make it to that cool blue oasis before us.

That was how we spent our last days in the city. If heaven has a swimming pool, then this is definitely it. Or was it? I would learn all too quickly that appearances can be deceiving because Heaven's pool, it appears, is run by the Gestappo. But for this post I´ll just call him Pedro.

Pedro is the head lifeguard at the Cordoba Municpal Pool. And yes, Pedro is a dick. According to Pedro, one must abide by the following rules which are posted in 12 point Times New Roman at the far back of of the restroom wall because doing so allows Pedro to pull full dickhead rank at his every whim. Pay attention as there will be a test:

1. DO NOT wear your prescription sunglasses in the water. It does not matter if you are legally blind without them (Joe). Absolutely no glasses are allowed while in or near the water. If you are so unfortunate as to be visually impaired, then you can just swim with your seeing eye dog or cling to the side of the pool.

2. DO NOT walk. At the Cordoba Municipal Pool, running is encouraged. So too is diving into the shallow end, flips, dunking, cannonballs, can openers...in short any type of amusing acrobatic feat that may entertain the lifeguards is highly acceptable.

3. DO NOT smoke. This is a smoke free facility. Now, if you are going to discretely light up a joint and smoke it under your towel, behind the bushes, or with your back to the lifeguard staff, then by all means go ahead.

4. DO NOT distract the guard staff. Your safety is our number one priority. Our number two priority is getting a date for later on this evening and making sure that the radio station is tuned to the best of the top 40. So please, save your flailing arms, choking, and skinned knees for the E.R. unless of course you're single with a C cup or larger. Then we can talk.

5. DO NOT take pictures. You will not be allowed to photograph your own child no matter what the reason. Oh, your son did his first dive into the pool? Too damned bad. What, your little girl finally got her face wet and blew a bubble? Suck it up. No photos allowed.

6. DO NOT accompany your child into the baby pool. The baby pool is for children under the age of 6 years. You may not get anything above your ankles wet if you are older than six years of age. If your child slips and begins to drown, scream in the direction of the nearest guard (200 meters away), wait for him to confirm her telephone number and/or the date for that evening and then direct him to your drowning toddler.

The rules are simple folks. Now go on, get out there and enjoy yourselves.

MERCK, YOU JERK

2011-08-10T06:16:00.003-05:00

Our first month in Spain is not yet upon us and we´ve been to the doctor three times and the pharmacy double that. Here´s the shopping list:

PHARMACY VISITS
Albuterol chamber refills (inhaled) x 4
Synthroid refill x 1

OFFICE VISITS x 2
Removal of Charlie´s stitches
18 month check up for Henry
Laboratory visit for Henry
Blood draw for a check thyroid

Now for the shock and awe:

We arrived at our each of our appointment times and were told to take a number and to sit oustide the designated exam room door until said number was called. Approximately ten minutes later we were called back by the physician´s assistant. The exam room was sterile and perhaps a bit institutional looking with all that white. The tending nurse was gentle yet professional. The doctor, thorough and prompt.

We never made a copay.
We never saw a bill.

To the left, my US prescription.
A 30 day supply of thyroid medication
to the tune of $1/pill. Thank you, copay.
The amount billed my insurance
company is $165. Scan to the right and
you see the SAME medication, made by the
SAME manufacturer except here
I get an 84 day supply to the tune of 4,85€,
which at last exchange was approximately $6.

What the hell is up with THAT, Merck?

Surely we´d be taking it up the butt at the pharmacy, right? The last time I was in HyVee, I shuttered when an elderly woman in front of me handed one of her prescriptions back to the pharmacist and said she´d have to wait til her next check came in to pick that one up. I had heard of people doing that but never actually witnessed it first hand. The whole scene really upset me. It wasn´t like she was in line for a botox refill. Was it a diabetes med? Arthritis? Had my own RX list not emptied my pockets of $120, I could have helped her out. Or could I?

So we go to the neighborhood phamacy with a heavy heart. It´s gonna hurt. What? 2 euros for the albuterol? Are you sure about that? But that´s not even five bucks. Our copay back home was ten. My thyroid mdeication is 4,85 euros for an 84 day supply? How can that be when my copay used to be $30 for ONE month? Wait a minute. Is this blackmarket? Come on, you can be honest. Really, I just need to know. And we leave whistling Zippety Doo-Dah all the way home.

PAN FRANCISCO TO THE RESCUE

2011-08-07T05:26:00.000-05:00

You probably know Europe by the quaint little streets that wriggle through her sleepy towns; spidery veins crawling up a lonely widow´s bony arm. Hundreds upon hundreds of twisting and winding cobbled streets just waiting to turn a tourist´s ankle before swallowing the poor fellow whole in its labyrinth. This is my new version of suburbia since landing in Córdoba some two weeks ago. And this post, an homage to suburban bikepath runs of the past...

Our fouth day in Córdoba was fast approaching and my running shoes were still nestled snug in the suitcase. I´m usually a 7 day runner, not wanting to miss even a day so the fact that the third day had come and gone without me even logging online to map a run had me in a funk. I was completely off schedule, so much so that I could barely manage a complete sentence, let alone a complete thought. You see, here in Spain the rules of time are far different than back in the States. And down here in the inferno that is an Andalusian summer, well everything and I mean EVERYTHING revolves around the apple green numbers of the farmacia´s digitial clock that brags 35 degrees (that´s Celsius, folks) before the churchbells toll noon. If I was going to do this first run right, I had two choices: dusk or dawn.

So on day 4 I laced up at 4:30AM. To most Americans, this is an ungodly hour to even think about working out and to a Spaniard well, it´s nothing short of sacrilege. As I headed out on my first Cordoban run I was passing by throngs of twenty, thirty and yes, even a few forty somethings who were heading home from the bars. Here there are just two entities awake at this hour: the pub crowd and the panadero. The beginning and ending of every good day: beer and bread. Or something to that effect. Anyway, back to the story. I hadn´t even tried to map the run and instead focussed on running for time. I committed to running an 8 minute square which I would repeat til I hit the hour mark. Above the white washed walls and orange roof tiles of the barrio San Andrés I spied three different church belltowers. These would be my reference points in case of the inevitable. And so I set off for my first ever run in Cordoba, Spain.

It was cool for the Spanish morning, maybe 60 degrees or so. The run felt great. My whole body was applauding every step. If you´re not a runner I can´t explain this feeling to you. I just felt like I was getting cleansed from the inside out, as if crystal clear cool water were pouring through all of my veins and washing away the garbage. And whenever I run, no matter how far I go, there´s some point during the run, maybe a minute or maybe a mile, that I think about what it feels like to run when you have CF. Breathe in, breathe out. Keep going...

Alas, just as I had feared, some twenty minutes into my square I was getting bored. I had passed the same homeless guy asleep on his bottle three times and woken him twice. It was time to branch out. I headed up the hill towards the plaza area that we had taken the kids to the previous day. The sidewalks up there were bigger and I could add some distance on the straightaway before heading back to finish up on the square. Up and up and up I ran, careful to make mental note of the fountains, signs and street names as I passed.

San Rafael
Santa Ana
San Pedro
Santo Domingo

After the fifth saint, I scrapped the street name idea and just focussed on monuments.

Big shooting fountain with naked man.
Little shooting fountain with naked man.
Naked man on a horse.
Naked man beside his horse.

You´ve seen one naked man statue and you´ve seen them all. It was time to turn back.

As I swooped back down into the mouth of the labryinth, I took a deep breath and hoped that I would get back home on the first shot. The first few streets flew by and I relaxed a little bit but coming up was a split in the road. Funny, but I hadn´t noticed this at all on the climb up. Left or Right? Right or left? Shit, I had no idea. Everything was white washed. Everybody had the same wooden front door and black wrought iron bars on their windows. Where in the hell had those belltowers gone? I didn´t stop running though. No way. What would that have solved? Not only would I be lost but I´d be pissed off that I had ruined a perfectly good run. No way, Jose. So like an idiot, I just kept running. I began zig zagging up and down, in and out of every single callejón. Once I tell you my philosophy on this you´ll realize why I´m no brain surgeon. I just figured that eventually one of the narrow streets would spit me out where I needed to be - the question was, could I outlast no better, could I outrun the labryinth that is the historic district?

So I ran.
And ran.
And ran.
And ran.
And ran.

And then I saw him. He may as well have been Moses himself, parting the Red Sea. The wave of diarreah that had taunted me since the split turned to a wave of relief. My compas rose: the panadero.

It was the same little white delivery van with its carefully scrolled magenta lettering that was loading up the fresh loaves from Pan Francisco´s shop at the begining of my run. Forget you, San Rafael. You too Santo Domingo. San Pan Francisco is my man. I fell into step behind his van and followed him all the way back to the bakery; the bakery which happens to be about 50 meters from our flat. And this first run, this first misadventure taught me my first two important lessons:

1. There is no one more important to the mistress of the house than a good, reliable panadero.

2. In the end a maze is just that, maize. When lost in the Iowa cornfield, just keep walking the line in the same general direction and you´ll find your way out. When you´re lost in the labyrinth of streets of the historic district do the same; head in the general direction, stay the course and you´ll find your way home.

Eventually.

DEFINING MOMENTS

2011-07-11T06:44:00.000-05:00

A liar I am not. As I pulled out of our neighorhood this one last time, a wave of nauseawashed over me.

Thisis it.

We’rereally doing it.
Noturning back now.

Joehad stayed behind to finish loading the moving truck. It was me, the kids, the not so friendly voice of the GPS and ajust-in-case road atlas tucked between the passenger seat and the console. We wouldn’t be seeing him until we hit Charleston a week or morelater. What in the hell had I beenthinking? Me? Little ole’ ME solely responsible for getting us from Iowa toSouth Carolina in one piece?

Anddid I mention that I was embarking on this deathwish with no cell phone? Another moment of sheer genius on my part,yes.

Thatwas a snapshot of us, Charlie, Lola, Henry and me on July 1, 2011. The first leg of the trip would take us to Cincinnati to my dad's house, his perfectly manicured lawn rolled out for us like a red carpet. Thedrive was surprisingly uneventful, almost easy, if you don’t count the bicyclerack falling off of the back of the minivan at 70mph.

“Hey,Mama.”

“Yeah,buddy? What’s up? Doin’ okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Whatcha’need?”

“Uhm…nothin’. But why are the bikes hangin’ down likethat?”

Buteverybody needs a good roadtrip story, don’t they? We stayed in Cininnati the better part of a week – just longenough to wipe out completely my dad and his wife – before we got back in thecar and attempted the final leg of the trip to reunite with Joe and Luna.

Wesaid adios to Des Moines nearly two weeks ago and though it’s beenexciting, I gotta be honest when I say that there’s a part of me that’s scaredshitless. I feel something like arefugee right now; no home to call my own, just drifting along looking for asoft spot to land. We’ve got a littlemore than a week left Stateside before we make this giant leap. And this is by far the craziest thing I’veever done in my life, well if you don’t count that time I eloped or that time Ishaved my head or that time stayed the night alone in a brothel…

Sothere’s been a few defining moments as we’ll call them. The point is, without any of those moments Iwouldn’t be whoI am today. Life is meant to belived. You’ll never know how great thewater is until you throw yourself in, even if it is headfirst. So go on now, get your butt off the internet and go do somethingyou’ve never, ever done before.

Goahead, I dare you.

LIVE

YOUR

LIFE.

DREAMING IN TECHNICOLOR

2011-05-24T16:11:00.000-05:00

It was cold.
It was wet.
It was windy.

How fitting that the weather decided to shit in my face for my official return to running at Saturday’s 10k run for Great Strides. I left the house knowing that Joe, my dad and the kids would be staying at home that morning, filling up on a warm pancake breakfast without me.

And I was okay with it.

Wading through the swell that was fast overtaking the parking lot I lamented the likelihood of a sparse turnout. Running in the rain is nice. Running in a typhoon, well, not so nice. By the time I was standing under the park shelter, the rain was coming down not in buckets but in sheets. It was going to be a long and lonely six miles.

And I was okay with it.

The route was two loops around the Raccoon River Lake. It’s a beautiful trail, much of it shaded by towering deciduous trees whose branches tickle the clouds before arching towards one another to form an overhead canopy. I swear every year that I’ll run the loop in the fall, my favorite time of the year, but true to form I always forget.

Rain pelting, I committed one foot in front of the other until I found my stride. After the first mile I didn’t even notice the rain. By the second mile the wind felt good. And by the third…by the third mile my miracle had arrived.

As I was rounding the second curve of the lake and coming up on a small clearing in the tree line that bordered the gravel path, it was as if an invisible hand was peeling back the layers of cloud that covered that miserable Saturday morning sky. Then, little by little, the hole in the sky began to fill with the most amazing sunlight. It was a Technicolor tribute; a buttery warm yellow pouring in from behind a wall of solid black. It very nearly stopped me in my tracks. In a word it was breathtaking.

As fast as the hole in the sky seemed to open up, the storm just dissipated; overtaken by that flood of sunshine from the heavens. After you’ve read stuff like this and this and this and this from me, you know as well as I that I am not one to write about my relationship with God, religion or anything even remotely spiritual. It’s just not my comfort zone. That said, the Technicolor sunshine that shone through over this weekend’s Walk was far beyond my wildest dreams for the day.

Des Moines, one of just 600 cities to host Great Strides, raised nearly a quarter of a million dollars for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation and while the totals aren't yet official, I know that we exceeded goal for this year's walk. It's true that we don’t yet have our cure, that we're still amidst a brewing storm but this much I do know: the sunshine is coming. It's not here yet but it is coming.

And I’m okay with it.

NOT TONIGHT HONEY, I'M PARALYZED

2011-05-18T12:22:00.000-05:00

Kiss my ass, U-Haul.

Packing ten years worth of bullshit in the span of 6 weeks might just go down as one of my stupidest moments yet. Especially after last night. I’ve never had such back pain in my entire life. Ever. And as if that wasn’t bad enough Joe decides he’s horny - I can’t even move, the pain is paralyzing and I’m just laying there like a Christopher Reeve, face down in my own pool of drool, nothing below the neck moving while Don Juan is dry humping my leg; his lame yet noble attempt at trying to put me in the mood. I’ve had sexier moments, yes, but last night was not one of them.

It dawned on me between muscle spasms and the annoying nudge of the one eyed snake under the covers that I’m just never gonna be one of those Real Housewives of Bravo TV. Those skinny bitches who get to whine about how much they’ve got on their plates with all that working out and shopping they have to do. However do they find the time? Well, it’s just not in the cards for me and I’m coming to terms with it. Slowly.

When Joe told me that he had confirmed the 6 one way tickets I will admit, there was a feeling of sheer panic that swept over me. It’s like those first five seconds after you read the positive results from your home pregnancy test. You’re thrilled but at the same time thinking, Holy Shit, no turning back now. Yeah, that’s how I feel. We’ve just launched ourselves from the 10 metre platform and well, there’s no turning back now.

I won’t complain anymore about working like a slave for these next six weeks. Quite honestly, I have neither the time nor the energy. No, I think I’ll save it instead for title consideration for my future book.

The Girl with the Couch on her Back.

Reeks of Pulitzer, doesn’t it?

...INTO THE FIRE

2011-05-03T11:05:00.000-05:00

I don't go looking for trouble which is why you'll find me sitting on the fence most of the time. But in the spirit of personal growth, I've decided to go out on a limb with this post. You see, I'm conflicted. I don't even know how to put it without totally pissing somebody off so I'll just say it: Bin Laden's death was severely anticlimactic for me. And the reaction of my fellow countrymen has me...well, for lack of a better word...disturbed.

Pissed? You can stop reading now, I understand. Really, I do.

I thought I would be jumping up and down when Justice finally rolled up. Instead, I just sat there on the bed with my mouth hanging open and a giant question mark bouncing around in my head. Really? He's dead? Killed? Taken out? Completely and totally gone?

Huh.

Maybe I would have felt differently
had he been caught in 2002, 2003 or even 2004.

Maybe I would have felt differently
had I known someone who had been killed on September 11.

Maybe I would have felt differently
had my brother, cousin or friend been serving in our military.

Those are some pretty big maybes. But yeah, maybe.

None of the above applied to me so I really can't say. And I do think it would have been a game changer, at least for this fence sitter. That said, it still doesn't change how I feel now. So how do I put it out there? How do I explain what I can't even articulate? The only thing that comes to mind are more questions; questions that have kept me up these past few nights.

How does the rest of the world perceive the USA in light of this news?

Are we heroes for killing that madman or are we once again the big Bullies who make their own rules?
What do these flag waving celebratory ovations splashed across the media really show?
Did we fall from any point of grace (if there is such a place); playing out the final hand just as the radical (Muslim?) world swore we would?

I guess the bigger question still, at least for me anyway, is this: how does the death of one avenge the death of thousands?

I've said way too much and now I'm shitting my pants as that little white arrow hovers precariously over PUBLISH POST.

You've listened politely. And for that I thank you.
I'm ready now to do the same.

[gasp]

THE DAY THE GENERAL CAME TO TOWN

2011-04-20T08:09:00.001-05:00

Not unlike the rest of the CF world, we have our quarterly clinic visit etched in gold on the kitchen calendar that hangs off the side of the fridge. It's like a date with the Pope; nothing gets in the way of it and come Hell or high water, Joe and I are both in attendance. We've been at this for three years now. Four visits a year times 3 years makes for a dozen trips down to the hospital to meet with our team. It dawned on me a couple clinics back, that I have a ritual that has preceded every single clinic visit: BitchFactor 10 - á la PicklePits of course.

The closest thing I can think of is a severe case of PMS. You know, the kind when your husband throws out an innocent, "Gonna run today?"

And you bite his face off with, "You know, I really don't appreciate your snide comments about my ass, Mr. Man-Tits! I've birthed THREE of your children. I've earned these curves..." and then you run in the bathroom, slam the door and cry your eyes out because your jeans are too tight (again).

STEP 1: RADIOLOGY

Each x-ray is carefully

scrutinized for any

changes from one year

to the next. Changes

mark lung damage &/or

progression of disease.

The effects of lung

damage in CF are

irreversible.

STEP 2: LAB

Results from the annual

blood draw are used to

chart vitamin levels.
This data guides us in

better understanding

the current status of
the kids' GI tract.

So BF10 starts to brew about two weeks prior to clinic and always ends in much the same way: a fit of tears. Once the tears come and go, I'm good. The storm pushes through and The General is back in town with her game face on in time to greet our team as they march through the revolving clinic door. We had a lot riding on this April clinic. It would be our annual visit; the wide angle shot at the kids' health across the scope of the past year. Scheduling the annual visit takes a bit of choreography since I like to get the x-rays and labs done in advance but as close as possible to our visit with the team. It's my way way of feigning control in the face of so much uncertainty; a snapshot of the here & now so I can heave a sigh of relief knowing that we left no stone uncovered and our team is seeing the whole picture for what it is as opposed to what it was.

STEP 3: PFTs

Pulmonary Function Tests (PFT's)

are new for Charlie. He does

PFT's prior to each clinic visit

now. PFT's measure how well

the lungs exhale. We are working

with Charlie to help him in

perfecting his technique in hopes

of providing our team with the

most accurate picture possible

of his current lung function.

Yet there was one thing missing: my meltdown. I had kept it in check when the respiratory tech took a phone call in the middle of Charlie's PFT's. I even threw a bone to the phlebotomist, smiling when she hit vein on the first try, as if that were even an option after the last time. I was so busy chasing appointment times all over town that I hadn't had a second to fear, let alone think about what was looming.

At exactly 7:48AM, twelve minutes before heading out the front door on our way downtown, the phone rang. The coordinating nurse from clinic was calling to announce the absence of two team members at our annual. Would we like to reschedule? Like a puss loaded zit begging to be popped, came the rumble of Mt. Vesuvius from within. Of course I wanted to reschedule but guess what, I'd already taken the entire day off of work so it was a little bit late for that invitation, thankyouverymuch. By the time we were out to the car, my heart was racing, my stomach was turning and I was seconds from blowing. Poor Joe, he was about to be blindsided, oblivious as to what was about to hit him.

"What in the hell are you doing? The interstate is that way! Oh no you're not! There's no time for Caribou...Jesus, Joe. Come on! We've got Clinic in less than 30 minutes for God's sake. How can you even think of coffee right now?"

My husband didn't have a prayer. The next 7 miles would be the longest of his life. Kids in the back fighting for the remnants of the last blueberry bagel, Henry babbling nonsense at the traffic whizzing by and me unraveling in the passenger seat, tears streaming as he sped down I-80.

Welcome to BitchFactor 10, my love. Buckle up it's gonna be a bumpy ride.

I'm sure the 10 minute drive felt more like 10 hours for the poor guy; yet he took it like a man, a decaffienated man at that. I guess after all these years together he's used to my neuroses. Well that or he just knows better than to try to stop a train wreck with his bare hands. By the time we got the car unloaded and stuffed our fivesome into the elevator, I was back in operational mode, just in time for the party.

Nurse

Pulmonolgist

Respiratory Therapist

Social Worker

Geneticist

Pharmacologist

As always, hindsight is 20/20 and in looking back, I see the elements that made up that perfect storm:

Charlie's PFT's had dipped since his last clinic and I was stressed out about it. Was he growing a bug? Were we going to see evidence of scarring on his chest x-rays?
Vitamin levels at our last annual were a bit off - nothing to warrant a GI consult but something to keep an eye on. With no dietician or GI present at this clinic visit who was going to interpret the lab results? Leave the lungs to the lung doctor and the vitamins to the dietician. How was I going to cover this base without her or our GI guy?
I hadn't had a good run in a while which meant I hadn't had a good cry either. I usually have my preclinic breakdown between miles 3 and 5 of any given run. So not having a good, long one messed that up big time.

Yet in spite of everything, it all worked out. Our pulmonologist was pleased with both kids' xrays. I leaned in (probably a little too) close over his shoulder and made him give me a personal tour of each lung. No scarring. No striations. NO CHANGE. I didn't believe him at first and pestered him for more detail, more proof that my kids were okay for now. The smile, the reassurance; that something no one else could give me but him, not even my husband. Those couple of minutes we spent pouring over the x-rays meant everything to me. He chuckled saying, "Really, they look clean. These are great, look at all that black, all that air space. It's really good, I promise." I reached for him, wanting to wrap my arms around his neck and just hug him tight. But I didn't, my fingers left instead to just squeeze the cold plastic arm of his chair.

The pharmacologist read vitamin levels and concurred with the pulmonologist that all levels except Vitamin D were well within normal range; the vitamin D low most likely due to the dark winter months so more whole milk for now.

Just prior to leaving some three hours later each kid gave up a nice juicy pflegm ball that would be our ticket out: throat cultures. We would get the call four days post visit that all was well. No pseudomonas. No B.Cepacia. No funky bugs. I guess in the end that's all I wanted: the assurance that comes with clean bill of health. Isn't that what we all want for our kids?

So I'm good now, good for the next three months.
Until the next clinic visit.
Until The General is back in town.

(RE)TURNING SPANISH

2011-04-01T04:01:00.000-05:00

All of this for one night in Chicago.

One night.

ONE.

In a word?

Ridiculous.

In my defense I only packed one clean outfit and a pair of footed pajamas (hotel rooms creep me out) for each kid. Joe and I were no different though I did splurge and cram in my running shoes. This was the final breakdown:

Pack-n-Play & mattress

2 Vests (for breathing treatments)

2 nebulizers (for breathing treatments)

diaper bag
‘family’ suitcase

stroller

grocery bag of picnic/snack items

media bag (computer & camera)

Thank goodness we ended up buying the minivan is all I can say. It lay stacked in the back from the floor all the way up to the ceiling so neatly, like trouble dolls in a box nested a little too tightly together - vertically. I wouldn't have to think about any of it for another 300 miles save for the potty breaks and diaper changes that loomed in my not so distant future.

So why the whirlwind trip?

We were on our way to the famed Michigan Avenue, home of the Magnificent Mile and (drum roll) the Spanish Consulate. This trip has been more than eight years in the making, even longer once you know the Full Monty.

You see, long before Charlie was even a thought we decided to reclaim Joe’s Spanish citizenship. Born Joaquin Jose Hidalgo to a single Spanish mother in Córdoba during the Franco years he not only came out with a mighty Olé but with all the rights and privileges of any other Fulanito. He was by every account Spanish. By the time little Joaquin was just three years old his mom had landed herself a handsome American pilot and the family of three played house quite nicely in Alicante, then a sleepy little beach town on the Mediterranean coast. Life rambled along those first newlywed years relatively uncomplicated until the family of three moved Stateside and formal adoption papers were filed. It was official: the Pilot was now Daddy.

And this is the part of the story where a giant ball gets dropped, then lost, and eventually buried over a span of ohhhhhhhh...about 30 years. For whatever reason, the U.S. adoption of Joaquin Jose Hidalgo by Donald Geist was never communicated to the Spanish government. Maybe it wouldn’t have been such a big deal had his parents' marriage ended in a bitter divorce and his mom gone back to Spain to lick her wounds and raise her brood. But that never happened. Donald Geist and Mercedes Hidalgo Polo were the quintessencial match. She with her dark Spanish eyes, that carefree gypsy spirit and he with his polished good looks and rigid Pennsylvania Dutch sense of right and wrong. They would go on to have two more children, both girls and they hopscotched back and forth between the U.S. and Spain. Joaquin Jose Hidalgo grew into his American self: Joey Geist and the Spanish passport with his former self lay safely in his mother's lingerie drawer lonely, untouched and very nearly forgotten.

Fast forward to 2011 and we were Windy City bound; the GPS 'recalculating' after every potty break. Our appointment at the Spanish Consulate was the final step; the circle drawing to a close. Our marriage, our family name and our children would be legally recognized and recorded by the Spanish government in a libro de familia. I had neither seen nor heard of such a document and imagined a Quijote sized book bound, it's pages trimmed in gold leaf. Camera charged and bags packed, we were off. I would digitally record every second of this momentous event for my future nietos. March 28, 2011: the day the Geist's (re)turned Spanish.

We made the most of what little we could do with the kids that late Sunday afternoon. We stretched our legs up and down Michigan Avenue, filled our bellies at a Brazilian restaurant and broke in the hotel room in a way that would have made even Charlie Sheen proud. Then the five of us snuggled in for the night and I dreampt of the the gold embossed letters on three maroon colored passports that were awaiting us three blocks away.

To be honest, yes, I had certain expectations of the Monday morning appointment. Did I expect a guy with a crown and septor to greet us? No. Did I expect the Himno Nacional to bellow as we walked through the doors of the Consulate? No, not even. But I did think they might have at least one Spanish flag hanging in the reception area; its bold red and gold stripes reaching out as if to say ¡bienvenidos!

Instead, we walked into a sea of beige. Beige carpet. Beige walls. Beige bulletin board. Beige counterops. Beige pamphlets. Beige periodicals. Even the middle aged guy behind the glass partition was wearing a beige sweater. How impossibly boring. Where was my pomp and circumstance?

Promptly at 10 o'clock, which okay, I'll admit was a shock for me, the security door swung open and a tiny Spanish woman called our name. And yes, she was beige too. She escorted us to a large, wooden conference table, possible the only bit of color in that whole office, we were seated and she pulled out two official looking documents from her dossier.

Joe signed.

I signed.

Joe signed again.

I signed again.

And that was it. 6 hours in the car for four signatures. I hestitated for a moment before rising. This would be her chance to cue the music. When nothing happened, I rose slowly. This would be her chance to flash a toothy smile and lean in for the dos besitos; her congratulatory gesture. Nope, not even a handshake. Could it be she was really American trying to fake her Spanishness?

Sigh.

As promptly as we had been ushered in, we were dismissed. We walked out, the five of us. Me, somewhat deflated but trying not to show it, my Spanish-American husband and our three little Spanish-American monkeys. And not one picture to prove it.

Sigh.

I guess that's what the libro de familia is all about.

TIT FOR TAT

2011-03-25T09:11:00.001-05:00

It would appear that my daughter is much more like her mother than I would care to admit. She has learned the art of dangling the carrot. Not quite three yet full up to the top with the cunning ways of a 37 year old. God, help me. In spite of promises to never utter the telltale threats echoing throughout my childhood memories, I have ever so sadly done just that as evidenced by our most recent confrontation:

ME: Come on now, Lola. A couple more bites, you're just about done.
LOLA: One.
ME: One? Whaddya mean, one?
LOLA: One bite.
ME: No, not one. Just a couple more. Come on, let's go. You don't wanna miss Dora, do you?

A lone middle finger stands erect
mocking &counting simultaneously

LOLA: ONE.

ME: Listen here, Missy. If you don't finish there will be NO Dora.

Pause. She hedges her bets.

LOLA: You not 'vited to my birthday party.

Pause again.
Her brow furrows and she glares at the spoon heaping with the next bite.
And her slow, deliberate whisper taunts,

No Dora cake for you.

KNEE DEEP AND RISING

2011-03-10T05:31:00.000-06:00

The new question that I'm greeted with from friends and family as of late is now an uninterested, almost obligatory, "So, how's it goin'?" followed by an uncomfortable pause which I've taken as code for, "How's the packin' comin' along, Slowpoke?" And to tell you the truth, it's the last thing I want to think about these days. The very last thing.

Adios garage. It was fun while you lasted.

In a word, Notsogood. That's three, I know. We'll just call it poetic license because at this point I don't even care. The bottom line is this: packing blows.

Ten years worth of ~~living~~ hoarding is not so easily compartmentalized into boxes carefully marked as Kitchen/Bathroom/Master/and Kids' rooms. What was I thinking when I bought and then kept those overpriced ceramic fondue plates that I've never, ever used? Thank you for that Crate and Barrel. Thank you for convincing me that I need dividers on my plate to keep things from intermingling and screwing up my palate for life. I'll take that as a form of culinary segregation, albeit subtle. And why do I still have a George Foreman grill? What's wrong with our gas grill? It works just as well, in fact better in my opinion, and lives quietly out on the deck where I don't have to worry about storing its extra large self in my extra small cupboard. Ahh yes, the hand crank lemon press. Was that really necessary? The only thing it's ever squeezed has been a finger or two and come to think of it I have yet to taste a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Quite honestly, the things I'm finding are absolutely, positively ridiculous. So I did what any other person would do, I made a new box and marked it appropriately (or not), CRAP.

To clarify, the CRAP box was not born out of total exasperation. There was, at least at one point in time, a plan for all of its contents: a spring garage sale. What could be better? But flashbacks to last year's fledgling attempt brought back bitter, bitter memories. Basically, it amounted to me sweating my ass off in a broken lawn chair amidst the dust bowl that had become my front yard while carloads of Mexicans tiptoed up and down my driveway whispering nasty asides in Spanish about the overpriced shit I was so certain no one else could live without. And as if that wasn't enough, not a one gave pause to the lone Gringa who sat drinking in their every word by the glassful all the while choking on her pride.

You don't want my ten dollar Mr. Coffee coffeemaker? Nevermind that hairline crack inching its way down the side of the carafe, just stick your mug right under the drip. That's brand name shit, amigo. ¿Comprende?

What? Five bucks is too steep for a snow shovel? You have got to be kidding! Five bucks is a gift in this economy. Besides, come December you'll be back, promise.

Hindsight is always 20/20 though, isn't it? Maybe most of it was a little overpriced. Okay fine, all of it. Can I help it that I had to tag everything in five dollar increments because I suck at math? Still, they could've at least made me an offer.
Bastards.

With a house full of shit and no hopes of a garage sale in my future I did the next best thing and so far it's not working out half bad.

That baby jogger that Juana rolled her eyeballs at? Cha-ching. Sold.
The 2-cup plastic Espresso maker? Cha-ching cha-ching. Sold again.
The poker set? Do you even have to ask? Why sold, of course.

I'm seriously considering putting a picture of the house up on Craigslist too. It sure would save me the hassle of having to keep it clean enough for a realtor to be able to show it. And maybe I could sell it "furnished." Now that would be fucking brilliant! Think of the hours upon hours that I'd save having to pack up all this shit myself. Mind blowing. Simply mind blowing.

The shovel though? That, I've decided to keep. It's unlikely I'll need it in Córdoba which, let's face it, is basically the same as living on the surface of the sun. It will be my very own reminder of home; a souvenir of winters past. A reminder of the garage sale that never was and never will be again. An homage to all those Saturday morning thrift seekers who waded knee-deep through my bullshit and somehow managed to keep on walking.

Because in the end it comes down to The Principle.
Yeah, it's all about The Principle...

Isn't it?

YOU'VE COME A LONG WAY, BABY

2011-03-07T04:36:00.001-06:00

Not sure if you knew this but Wednesday marks Barbie's 52nd birthday. On this day, March 9th, 1959, Barbie made her debut at a toy fair in New York City. Wow. Has it really been half a century? Time flies when you're warping the minds of young girls I guess.

Actually, I really have no place to be such a cynic. I did afterall own a suitcase full of her and her friends, each and every one my very own fashion slave. Barbie, Skipper, Ken and a slew of nameless Generics kept me entertained for hours during those long, dark Wisconsin winters. I vaguely remember Ken groping one of them awkwardly with his stiff plastic paws in the upstairs bedroom of the Dream House while Skipper was downstairs making coffee in the kitchen. Thank you Mattel for that first sexual experience in my Madison basement.

-Catering Barbie's Bakery-
complete with muffin tins & spatulas
(prescription pills & therapy sessions
sold separately)

Trust me, I've seen enough media coverage to know that Barbie eventually evolved beyond baking and decorating though to what extent I'm just not sure. I went out to her blog today and found this. Yeah, I know, I know. The bitch has her own blog! Geez. Well, the whole thing got me thinking and wondering why Mattel doesn't make and market a new Barbie. If I were on the project design team this is how I'd approach it:

First off, she'd need a cool name. Nothing too traditional like "Barbie" because this is afterall, 2011 and everyone has named their kid something different to set them apart. I mean even if you were lucky enough to have gotten a normal name these days you can bet your sweet ass that your parents chose an alternative spelling of it so as to make it unique.

Then she'd needs a job (or two) because let's face it, we ALL work these days. Even my stay-at-home mom friends have a thing or more going on the side: candles, wine, babysitting, cooking crap...we're all trying to stay afloat in this economy that much is obvious. Maybe she could be like me? Professional by day but what by night?

And what would her issue be because we ALL have those too. Alcoholism? Hoarding? Eating disorder? Maybe something less severe but still a real pain in the ass to manage. Procrastinator? Gotta think on that. Might not work for her but it works for me.

So here she is, the New and Approved Barbie:

WORK:
Manager at Starbucks by day and Zumba Instructor at the local healthclub by night
MARITAL STATUS:
Divorced once, current wife to Jim (Ken's co-worker)

CHILDREN:
(3) Addyson, Tennyson and Benson. Benson has ADHD and Tennyson is hyper active

NOTABLE PHYSICAL FEATURES:
Taller than average (it is Barbie afterall), multiple criss-crossed and sagging c-section scars, chin whiskers (due to excessive caffeine intake) and bunions

PERSONAL CHALLENGES:
None that she's come clean with but her friends suspect bulimia, a growing addiction to prescription pills & the jury's still out on her compulsive Clearance shopping habit

Thoughts?

I know I'm missing something. I'll submit the final work up to Mattel with a proposed MRSP of $24.99. Surely they'll have more than enough opportunity to branch out with the following accessories:

teeth whitener kit for the caffeine stains ($7.99)

body shaping girdle for the hooch-pooch sag ($9.99)

syringes for Botox injections ($16.99)

tweezers for the whiskers ($5.99)

The New and Approved Barbie by Mattel

...because every little girl deserves a look at what her future can be!

SILVER BULLET x 2

2011-03-02T04:12:00.000-06:00

It feels like forever since my first CF related post even though it's only been about three years. I dunno anymore, is three years a lot? A little? Just enough? I guess I've quieted some because we're still sailing far enough ahead of the brewing storm. If Charlie and Lola are good, I'm good. And lucky for us, they've been doing really, really well for a long time. I was telling my amiga Susie that when it comes to CF, I tend to go in cycles. I'm cool until about 2-3 weeks before our quarterly clinic visit and then I morph into Sybil. I just bitch-out if that's even a term. Every little thing sets me off. Everything.

And it's all because I've got that leech called cystic fibrosis waiting to suck me dry at every turn.

Well, last week, something big happened. I'm talking big as in The New York Times big. It's taken me a full week to even get my brain around it let alone be able to rattle it off on the keyboard. So here's the 411 after a week's worth of marination in the void that occupies the space once reserved for my brain:

There's a wonder drug out there called VX770. I wrote about it once here but as quick as it posted to my feed I let go of it; let it fade back into white noise, just another prelude to a dream. Well, last week this same wonder drug made front page of the Foundation's website. Did you hear about the earthquake in Arkansas this week? Yeah, well the press release for VX770 is like an 8.0 on my Richter scale. I shit you not. You see, this drug is now in Phase III, the final phase, of clinical trials. You have no idea how tough it is to get a drug to this point. I've often wondered if winning the lottery would be easier because for all the drugs that make it into the drug pipeline in the first place, it's very few that make it to market. Very, very few.

So last week's news from the CFF that they were planning to apply for FDA approval of VX770 sent shockwaves through the CF community. I was actually sitting in my first block class when I read the release. At first I just sat there, staring at the monitor not believing what I was reading.

"Patients who took the drug, compared to those on placebo, showed a marked improvement in lung function at 24 weeks, which was sustained for the duration of the 48-week trial."
WHAT?

"Patients also showed improvement across all key secondary endpoints in the study, including reduced likelihood of experiencing a pulmonary exacerbation, decreased respiratory symptoms and improved weight gain. Each of these areas is critically important to the health of people with CF."
NO FUCKING WAY!

"In addition, average sweat chloride levels of patients on VX-770 dropped toward normal levels, while those on placebo did not change — indicating the drug is impacting the underlying defect in CF. Excessive sweat chloride (salt) is a key clinical indicator of CF."
OH. MY. GOD.

I jumped up from my stool and clapped my hands together half a dozen times and just kept repeating, "YESSSS! YESSSSSSS!" over and over and over again. And then the tears came and I had to pace around the classroom fanning my eyes so my mascara wouldn't start running down my cheeks. My poor students, bearing witness to the freak who was their teacher.

But here's the catch.

The VX770 will NOT help Charlie and Lola. They don't carry the same mutations that this drug is targeted for. It will instead help just 4% of the CF population. What's 4% of 30,000? Anyone got a calculator? Like 1,200 people? Hell, let's talk globally. Let's take 4% of 70,000. What's that make...2800 and thensome? I know what you're thinking. Yeah, she's totally lost it. Crapping her pants for a drug that's gonna help 1,200 maybe close to 3,000 but not her own kids? What a dreamer. No, strike that. What a moron.

Well hold on. I'm not done.

You see, there's another drug by the same company - the VX809 - and they're working on the theory that giving the VX809 along with the VX770 will help CFers who carry at least one copy of the most common CF mutation (the Delta F508). In essence not one but two silver bullets.

Why hello there Mr. VX770, I'd like to introduce you to my fucking amazing children, Charlie and Lola. No, we didn't name them from that stupid cartoon from Disney Channel. They're nothing at all like that cartoon. They are two beautiful, wonderfully chatty, hilariously stubborn, lovey-dovey,in your face kids who happen to have CF. And they also happen to have

a copy of that nasty Delta F508 gene that you're gonna fix. Got it? Good. Oh and by the way, would you mind terribly passing this on to your pal, Mr. 809? Thanks!

The VX809 is still in Phase II, so it's a little bit farther back in the drug pipeline but so far, things are looking good, very good. Still, there's a catch: getting a drug all the way through these trials not only takes good science but Megabucks. I'm talking gazillions of dollars. The US Government does not fund fund these clinical trials. They are funded through donations. The gala dinners, the WineOpeners, the charity golf outtings, the foot races, the walks...all the way down to the bake offs and can collecting. In short, all of those fantastic donations. That's what funds this research.

So I can't be all polite anymore and ask you to consider making a donation. Now I'm knees to the floor begging you: Help me Help the Foundation Help us.

And here's how:

Go HERE and click Join My Team. This will register you as a walker on our family's team.
Once you register as a team member, you be given a login and password. Please use it to make your own fundraising homepage
Wanna really be a hero? Go to www.CFF.org, click on the Great Strides logo and create your own Charlie & Lola Team and recruit walkers under you.
Last but not least, if you haven't yet made a donation, please, please, please make one by clicking HERE. Anything you can afford, I mean ANYTHING, would just mean the world to me, to us.

Yesterday, as I was packing a box of dishes, Charlie came up and kneeled beside me. "Mama, how much longer do I have to do treatments?" God, what I wouldn't have given to have been able to tell him the answer he was fishing for. It took everything I had not to snap that dinner plate in two, I swear. When your child comes to you with hope in his eyes and you have to be the voice of reason, of right, of truth...well, it just so totally sucks.

So until then, until the press release that makes me own up to No. 15 of my Bucket List, I just have to stick with, "...until we've got the cure, Charlie. Until we've got the cure."

ADDENDUM TO A MANIFESTO

2011-02-28T04:15:00.001-06:00

Okay so a few days ago my good friend wrote and posted her very own manifesto of what-nots. What not to do. What not to wear. What not say. Not such a bad idea, I thought. I mean how better to weed out the crap from your life, no? While it wasn't exactly a manifesto per se, it was, at least in my opinion, a pretty damned good list. And as with all good posts, I was having a schizophrenic moment (or two) and talking back to the laptop while my husband looked on thinking God only knows what.

Yeah...
MmmHmm...
Hell Yeahhh...
Oh no you di'int...

Seriously, what could possibly be that funny? Lucky for me my husband gets my sick sense of humor but still, it's gotta be a buzzkill to have to wait for your wife to finish reading her laptop before you can, you know, 'get some'. But I kid you not, this girl is freakin' hilarious. Well, hilarious until I hit her Número Tres.

Oh NO. HELL NOOOOOOO you DI'INT!

My laughter went from roaring to dead silence. I'm talkin' mime silent. My eyes slowed to get her take on this. While she penned a pretty convincing argument, I couldn't help but feel defensive. Was she serious?

NO DRAWING ON OF THE EYEBROWS. NO MATTER WHAT.

So indulge me for a moment, will ya? See although I was born and raised a natural blond, adulthood (mainly all these years of being pregnant) has betrayed me and I will, in the end, die a brunette. Yet, in spite of this cruel twist of fate, I'm still left with remnants of my former self.

Body hair? Blond.

Fringe around my hairline? Blond

Eyebrows? Blond

Roots as black as the polluted waters of the Ganges yet all other indicators point to a Swede in the making. What the fuck is up with that? You don't believe me? See for yourself. Go ahead, look.

The older I get, the worse the contrast and the more problematic my eyebrows have become. And until you nearly rip one off of your own face, which I actually did once, you'll never know the hassle that is a mismatched pair of brows.

I love my friend and she loves me. At least I think she does. I mean we talk and cut it up all the time and we have un mogollón (that would be tons to the non Spanish speakers) in common. But after reading this she may not be able to make an exception to her Número Tres.

I can promise no Crystal Gayle hair. Ever.

I don't even own any cutoffs.

The sextales I'll save for our email chats.

But the Revlon Brow Fill-in Powder?

The drawn on brows?

Sorry honey, those bitches are stayin'.

CONSOLATION PRIZES ARE FOR LOSERS

2011-02-25T04:32:00.000-06:00

I never win anything. Ever. There could be a raffle with ten names dropped in the bucket, nine of them mine, and I would come out the loser. I'm unlucky that way, what can I say? So imagine my shock when I was recently given a blogging award by Mother Theresa whose blog you should really check out. Yeah, I know. Awarded by a friggin' saint. Me, the girl with the mouth of a drunken sailor. Who'da thunk it?

But like all good things, it comes with a string or two. And it goes something like this:
Hey, you won! Now vomit up 7 facts about yourself in a charming yet witty way and oh yeah, don't forget to pay it forward to a handful of blogs that you wanna crown winners. Simple enough, I say. Here goes:

ALL YOU (N)EVER WANTED TO KNOW ABOUT ME

1. I don't do meat on the bone. Lemme clarify this by saying that I'm no vegetarian. In fact, there's nothing I love more than a bloody steak with my glass of Spanish red. But you will never, ever see me pick up the bone and nibble away at the smidges of clingon meat. I grew up watching my mother do that from across the table and it drove me nuts; the scrunched up nose as she angled her teeth in to rip that last piece of animal flesh off the bone. In a word, yuck. Gimme the meat but you can keep the bone.

2. I cannot go to sleep in an unmade bed. Not gonna happen. Nope, just can't do it. Yeah I know, I know. It's the OCD again. It doesn't matter how late or how tired I am, I will make the bed first and then turn it down before I get into it.

3. I have better than 20/20 vision. Yes, I really do. It's actually a bummer for me since I have always fantasized about wearing really cool, preppy looking glasses. It also sucks that I can see coffee grounds on the counter top from 30 feet away.

4. I lived in Barajas (Madrid's airport) for almost three days after a Romanian pickpocket walked off with my life. Airline ticket, passport, drivers license, cash, debit and credit cards; in short, my identity, gone. TSA (or at least the Spanish equivalent) can be a real bitch when you can't prove who you are, where you're coming from or where you're going.

5. I'm deathly afraid of swimming in natural bodies of water. DEATHLY AFRAID. It's a good day if I wade out past knee deep whether it's the Mediterranean, the Gulf of Mexico or the Atlantic. In fact, I'm not above hanging out in the chlorinated pool while on a beach vacation. Sad but true. I'll blame it on my Midwestern upbringing. And yes, lakes and ponds are out too.

6. I maintain my position that all boobs are overrated. Take it from me, the girl who's schlepped every size between B and DDD around town. If it were up to me I'd cut the fuckers off. Too bad God didn't make 'em in Velcro. Nice add on for the beach or that plunging neckline but useless the other 363 days of the year.

7. I've successfully completed all coursework for two Masters Degrees: 20th Century Peninsular Studies (Spanish Lit.) and TESOL. Two, count them, TWO! Yet I have no degree to show for either one of them. Two advanced degrees takes me to near genius level. Zero diplomas makes me stupid. Ahhh, the irony.

And now (drum roll) The Newly Crowned. Get your index finger ready. Grab that cuppa Jo. Time to get yourself some new reading material. You won't regret it and you may just laugh or cry your ass off. If not the entire ass, at least the Snickers bar you snarfed at lunch.

1. Around the Way Girl in Alabama
Because she just kills me, absolutely KILLS me with stuff like this and this and this. That and being my long lost soul sister helps.

2. Froggy Mama in California
Because she is quite possibly my hero in both the literary world and the CF world. That and my No.8 Special (Pho Saigon) always tastes better in her company.

3. Gemma in United Kingdom
Because I like her. I like her kid. And I said so.

4. Danielle in New Jersey
Because she has the heart the size of Texas. Yeah, it's that big. That and who cooler to read than a mom who as gone to the Olympic trials more than once?

5. Rea in Algeciras {all-HAY-sear-us} or if you really wanna sack up {all-HAY-THEE-dus}
Because she lives in a place most can't pronounce, she can wrestle a moose with her bare hands, and her kid is freakin' gorge. Yeah 'gorge' as in gorgeous. All that and I love Canada almost, but not quite as much, as I love Spain.

6. Alexandra in Canada
Because she hearts three of mine: Spain. Food. And language. That and did I mention that Canada rocks?

7. Blues in Seville, Spain
Because if we all ban together and scream loud enough in angry, whiny CAPS LOCK letters, she just might feel enough pressure to come back.

8. Robin in Russia
Because she's got some cojones that little Florida girl.

9. MommaBean in Amman, Jordan
Because we could all use the schooling that NBC, ABC and CBS nightly news have starved us of.

10. Mother Theresa in Pamplona, Spain
Because she's the one who started this whole thing and I think it only fitting that demands for a recount, complaints and/or rebuttals be directed to her inbox. That and she also has a neat little thing going on over at The Rain in Spain that I know you don't want to miss.

Go on now, get out there and make some new friends.

RIDING SHOTGUN FROM HEAVEN

2011-02-22T09:05:00.000-06:00

My drive in to work each morning is a pretty easy one. Not even 3 minutes out of my suburban driveway and I’m on the interstate, rolling straight into downtown. No turns, no lights just a sling shot eastbound in the left lane and I’m there in 15 minutes, 10 if I push it.

Today though it was different. The last 5 of my 15 was spent behind a pearl white Camry. We exited together at MLK and I followed him all the way down the boulevard, past the turn off for the hospital and right on down past the cemetery. Was this guy on his way to drop off a kid on his way in to work? It was kind of early but not entirely impossible. Maybe he was on his way to the airport for the United flight out to Denver. Or Detroit.  It wasn't until we slowed in unison for the yellow aglow at bottom of the hill that I noticed it.

In Loving Memory of Chris
1968-2009

Stuck to the back of his rear window in slanted cursive letters. An attempt at classy with its italicized font yet painfully innocuous. Pardon my ignorance but just who was the brainiac who decided to mass market this phenomenon?  The epitaph in a car decal.   And just how does one go about purchasing one of these?  It's been a while since my last funeral but maybe it's like an add-on to the package; a gift-with-purchase perhaps?

...And when you upgrade from the oak veneer to the solid mahogany we include not one but two widow decals to commemorate your dearly departed...

What would Chris have to say about this? His brother, his partner, his cousin, his little league co-captain, his whatever was driving around Des Moines with him stuck to the back windshield; the 9 of 2009 starting to roll downward after two years baking in the glow of a Midwestern sun.

The whole thing just creeped me out. I mean seriously, what happens when it's time to trade in the Camry? Do you get out there with an X-acto blade and scrape Chris off the back window? Do you even remember that Chris is there riding four inches above the ice scraper stored on the back dash?

I do understand that people handle grief in many different ways. I get it, I respect it. And if centering your your loved one's name and stats on your back window somehow helps you move through your grief then all the more power to you. As for me, I really have no desire to be remembered in this fashion but if you must, then consider this post fair warning:

I'm riding shotgun across the front windshield.

In a classy arc.

And scrap the italics. I'll take the Gothic letters, 60 font.

Stretched all the way across.

Because...

well, that's just how I roll.

SPRINGTIME IN PARIS

2011-02-17T06:22:00.000-06:00

Yesterday was a first for me. Against my better judgement and cloaked in my contraceptive nightware (sweatpants and a thermal long sleeved t-shirt), I called the kids into the master bedroom closet.

"I need your help, guys. I'm not sure what to wear to work tomorrow. Whaddya think?"

Lola looked up at me bewildered as if to say, "Clothes, dumbass. Clothes," while Charlie ventured a bit more trepadatiously, "You mean we can pick it out?"

"Sure. Why not?"

Lola eyed my shoe rack, eyes scrolling from summer to winter and back again as Charlie made a beeline for the pants hanging at eye level. "Here. These." Nice. My black fatties. They hung too loose and I'd be tugging them up all day but they were far better than the alternative hanging two inches to the right. Definitely dodged a bullet there. Phew. "And THAT one!" A finger shot up to a silver sparkly top with a plunging criss cross neckline.

"Ooooooo, " purred Lola, "I like shiny."

Conservative on the bottom and a little rock n roll on the top. It's not like I had a choice at this point. Besides, staying true to the rules of my Before 40 Bucket List, I would not try to sway the kids one way or another. This was their choice. I'd have to redeem myself at work another day. "I like it Charlie. Good choice. But what about my feet?"

Charlie reached for my black pumps with the gray speck of buckle on the toe and I felt a wave of relief wash over me. Apparently he had remembered these shoes as part of my standard "look" when wearing anything black. That and I'm sure he was sick of the game and just wanted to get back to the pile of race cars strewn all over the living room floor. I would go to work the next day having completed my first bucket list item and no one would be the wiser.

Well, Lola was all over that shit. "No! I want these."

So much for discretion. She had selected a pair of brown strappy sandals with a wedge heel. A mistake I had made three years ago and had forgotten to purge. I briefly contemplated how to play this card as Charlie examined them.

Clunk.

The pumps hit the closet floor with a hollow thud. It was decided. The brown sandals would be going to work with me in the morning.

"You're gonna need some socks with those, Mama."

"Ya think so, Charlie?" Oh boy. Now I was starting to sweat.

"Oh yeah. There's snow outside. Your toes might get cold with these holes." He wove his fingers through the straps of the open toe to emphasize his point.

"Ohhhhh, yeah. I hadn't thought about that, good point." Shit.

He blew past me through the closet doorway and headed for the socks packed snuggly the bedroom's armoir. Before I knew it a pair of gray ankle socks were thrust into my ribcage. Thanking him, I managed two additional thank yous; one for the fact that he had pulled a pair with no holes and two that he had somehow, perhaps by Divine Intervention, missed the drawer full of white running socks.

And as fast as it had started, it was over. My outfit for the the next day of work was laid out and ready to go. The kids took off, content at having accomplished said chore so efficiently and I stood there taking inventory:

1 pair of black pants
1 silver, long sleeved shimmery top with a plunging neckline
1 pair of gray ankle socks
1 pair of strappy brown sandals on a wedge heel

A smile crept past my lips. And I remembered Paris, a city I have visited just four times in my lifetime and loved each time more than the previous. The Parisian women with their silky scarves blowing behind them and their designer shoes clicking with delicate precision against the sidewalks crowded with foreign tourists in dirty tennis shoes.

My foot. My shoe. My sock.
My Mission Complete.

Tomorrow I would be one of them - Parisian.

Not in fashion but definitely, most definitely, in attitude.

HAPPINESS IS...

2011-02-15T09:58:00.001-06:00

Breakfast in a Box

What could be better (or easier)?

MY FUNNY VALENTINE

2011-02-14T14:36:00.000-06:00

Rewind about 12 years ago and I was a late twentysomething, fresh out of a string of really bad relationships and officially 'done' with the dating scene. I was fed up, sick of the games and head over heels in love with my new job at a major financial house here in town. On any given week I was jetting out to a cool city (or not) to do a my shtick - a bilingual financial seminar. Boring you say? Well, maybe just a little bit. But you have to remember I was young, loved to travel, and got to practice my Spanish (most of my trips were of the bilingual variety) - all on the company's dime.

So one night after work I found myself checking email and messing around on the computer at home. This was back in the days of AOL and dial up modems just to give you a frame of reference. About ten minutes into my surfing, I decided to find a chat buddy. Three clicks later there he was, first on my list: Joaquin. The first thing to cross my mind was Spaniard. The second In Des Moines?

Me: Hola. ¿Qué tal? ¿Te apetece charlar?
Him:
Me: ¿Hola?
Him:
Me: Sorry. I thought you spoke Spanish. I just wanted to practice.
Him: ¿Quién coño eres?

Alas, an unwitting invitation for me to pepper him with every colloquialism learned from my year abroad in Valencia. Spanish oozing from my fingertips; the accents, the tildes and the inverted punctuation all in their proper places, my professors would have been so proud. And so it went, two complete strangers with nothing in common save for a late evening on the computer and ganas de charlar.

That chat eventually led to a phone call which then turned into a date: coffee at the bookstore. And in spite of me being 'done' with dating I was hopeful that this one would work out, at least long enough for me to get some good Spanish in. We seemed to 'click' but the real test was yet to come: would we be attracted to one another?

As the doorbell rang, a single thought crossed my mind: please be normal. You don't have to be Prince Juan Carlos, but please, please be normal. Funny how I wasn't concerned about him being a rapist or serial killer lest I digress...

He knocked and I opened.
In one word, my first impression was more like a sound, Hmm.
I wasn't bowled over by his looks.  I just kind of stood there taking him all in.
Taller than me but only slightly. Dark, thick hair. Clean cut. Smelled good. Not particularly athletic looking. Nice, big, strong hands. A rather solid first impression. And then he spoke.

"Se empieza con los dos besos, ¿no?"

Oh my God. Did I just wet my pants? I went from comfortably confident to weak in the knees and stuttering. His one liner still caught in the side of my mouth, I was now reeling myself in.

"Uhm, lemme just...uhh...I gotta grab my pullover...uhh...and yeah, uhm...then we can head."

I grabbed the royal blue windbreaker, my favorite running standard, and slipped my arms into its sleeves flipping it up & over my head in one giant arc.  But in my haste to get Don Juan out the door and to the bookstore, I had forgotten that the cinch in the jacket's waist was pulled tight and locked.  Oops. Not to be outdone by the locked cinch, the zippered opening at the top was also pulled up. Smooth move dumb ass.

There I was standing in my the entryway of my condo with my arms full up over my head and the jacket cinched tight and not budging one more inch as it sat parked right above my boobs. My head stuck somewhere inside, this would go down in the books as one of my better How to Look Like a Jackass Without Even Trying moments, of which I have many.

So much for first impressions.

That was how our first date started. And for whatever reason - perhaps the cd changer loaded with Paco de Lucia and Gypsy Kings that he had (planted?) in place of Metallica and Iron Maiden?  Maybe he just felt sorry for the busty blonde who practically suffocated herself inside of her own jacket? I dunno but we've been together ever since.

He was there when my brother broke his neck in the accident.
And he was there when my brother learned to walk again.
He was there when I quit my dream job.
And he was there when the new job turned into a living nightmare.
He was there through my second go 'round at a Masters.
And he was there tight lipped when I cast it aside.
He was there when I shut my dad out of my life.
And he was there cheering when I let my dad back in.
He was there when CF joined our happy little family the first time.
And he was there when it socked us in the gut the second time.

In more than ten years of being my Valentine, he's seen me at my best. And stuck by me at my very, very worst.

So this post is for you Joaquin Jose...
aka El Americano...
aka Joey...
aka Joe...

No importa el apodo que te darán. Tu eres y siempre serás mi media naranja. Te quiero más de lo que sepas y mucho más de lo que puedas imaginar.

Happy Valentine's Day, cariño.
I love you.
k.

LET THEM EAT CAKE

2011-02-08T15:44:00.001-06:00

Two birthdays in the span of less than a week.
One anticipates kindergarten.
The other, walking.

It's a HUGE deal that five year old birthday party. So why then did I wait 'til the day before to pull out great grandma's homemade chocolate cake recipe and the KitchenAid? Uhm, I mean, order the cake? A HUGER (yes, my word) deal still that first birthday. And I don't have a single present wrapped yet? Uhm, okay, I mean bought.

What's up with that?

Fine. I'm a crappy mom. But truth be known, I don't even remember my fifth birthday party let alone my first. While some might think me putting the store bought cake on a pedestal and passing it off as my own akin to plagiarism, I think it's sheer genius. But hold on a second. Before my regulars (all 5 of you) jump to my defenses with, "...but you're not a crappy mom...you're really not..." I invite you to raise your glass (hand if you're foregoing) and toast ALL the crappy moms out there like me. And by 'crappy' I mean:

1. You're running around half the time like John Bobbit; your dick in your hands focused on getting that thing sewn back on ASAP but failing to notice that your house is burning down, the dog just ate a pooey diaper and is licking the baby's face and your bra's on inside out.
translation: YOU'RE BUSY

2. You're just a smidge grumpy from that four hour cat-nap most call 'nightime'.
translation: YOU'RE TIRED

3. You pass off the bedtime story because it's easier to snuggle your kiddo tight in your arms as he lays transfixed by (insert cartoon).
translation: YOU'RE SCARED HE'S GROWING UP TOO DAMNED FAST

Cheers ladies, here's to the next 365 days.

May they be worth every single candle on the next (store bought) cake.

FENG SHUI MY WAY

2011-02-03T05:58:00.000-06:00

A quick Internet search and I'm told that Jennifer Anniston and Victoria Beckham follow its practice. And seeing that the Lunar New Year is now upon us, I must concur: feng shui is the way to go. If it's good enough for Jen and Vicky, then why not me? Not even three clicks away and I discovered that feng shui can even help you sell your home. Really? Buddha at my front door will bring in bids at or above market value? Well, sign me up! I scrolled through the article like a heroine addict digging for a metal spoon. My eyes, frantically searching for the 1-2-3 on how to unload this house; a house which we love dearly but a house that has been loved a little too much if you know what I mean.

We're now a month behind schedule in our attempt at readying the house to put on the market for a spring sale and I've accomplished little more than fine tuning my drinking habit. Where has the time gone? How did Labor Day turn into Valentine's Day? It's a sad day when the 25lb bags of mortar lined up in the foyer get vacuumed and repositioned so as to look tidy in the construction zone that is our life right now. The to-do list isn't so much long as it is time consuming, falling predominantly upon Joe's (hulky yet strained) shoulders as he manages the business that is his Blackberry and the butt wiping of our kids simultaneously.

finish tile projects in kitchen, foyer, bathroom, laundry & dining room
replace carpet in master bedroom and great room
replace kitchen counter tops
declutter and start packing up non essentials (non-essentials?!?)

Aaaah yes, decluttering. Have you ever tried to declutter a house decorated by Fisher Price? What does Mr. Buddha say about that? I'm also still highly suspicious of Lola's ever growing pile of dolls. Could it be that they're fornicating at night as we sleep? I wake up each morning to a dozen more of them; each one mocking me with its painted on grin and come hither stare. Indeed it will be a miracle if and when this house is ever ready to meet a realtor. {sigh}

I love you feng shui.
I mean, I think I love you.

MAIN ENTRANCE and ENTRYWAY

How well the house is able to maintain and nourish good energy is much determined by what is happening in the main entryway. What do you see as soon as you come into the house? Assuming you do not see the back door right away, what else is there that would be a potential bad feng shui set-up?

Yet the real question remains...

Do you love ME?

THIRTY SEVEN

2011-01-28T08:02:00.000-06:00

THIRTY SEVEN.

That number just blows me away. Has it really taken thirty seven years for me to love my body? To admit that I'm no longer a natural blonde and probably never was? To own up to the fact that a size 10 is my version of 'petite'? Simply stated, it's taken me thirty seven years to accept myself for who I am instead of worrying about who I am not.

In less than six months I'm going to be turning 38 years old; dangerously close to 40 though a milestone all the same. It dawned on me the other day that this, my 37th year, is especially poignant in light of the fact that 37 is actually the most recent the life expectancy released by the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation. I'm no stranger to this statistic, in fact it was one of the first things I Googled when we got Lola's diagnosis: life expectancy and CF. Where the answer to my search used to make tears well up in my eyes, I'm pleased to report that this is no longer the case.

I've accepted it. It's there. It is what it is.
And I've got roughly 32 more years to change it.
Period.

Five years ago, the same year that Charlie was born and long before we even knew he had CF, a pharmaceutical company out east by the name of Vertex submitted to clinical trials this little ole' drug by the name of VX-770. Shortly thereafter, it submitted a second drug, VX-809, to clinical trials. The aim of both drugs was to target the basic defect of cystic fibrosis at the cellular level. Fix the cells, fix the problem. Evidently, there's a bit more to it than my peas and carrots brain can articulate but that's the nitty gritty. For those of you who want it spelled out, you can click here for a mini science lesson that does a pretty good job of explaining things if I do say so myself.

As I turn the corner on January and sail into these last six months as a thirty seven year old, I am looking at new beginnings. My glass is full up to the top and spilling over. I am as hopeful as ever that VX-770 will gain final approval by the FDA and that VX-809 will continue to show promising results in its testing so that it too can move on down and out of the drug pipeline. I often think about what it will mean not only for those battling CF, but for anyone battling a monogenetic disorder. Getting a drug or combination of drugs that can punch a disease - can knock it out - at the cellular level is huge. HUGE. Could this pending breakthrough by Vertex eventually impact those fighting sickle cell anemia? Huntington's Disease? Hemochromotosis? I can't get my head around it - my heart yes, but not my head. Not yet.

So on May 21, 2011, five pairs of running shoes will be laced up in Des Moines.  We are participating in Great Strides, the biggest and most important fundraiser for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation. I would like to invite you to do the same, to walk a three mile stretch with us on that day, wherever you are. Donations made to this event go towards funding the research so crucial to finding a control for CF. Of you I ask not one, not two, but three simple things:

1. WALK WITH US
     Wherever you are on May 21, 2011, lace up and walk those 3 miles with us.

2. MAKE A DONATION
     $10, $20 or $200 - every single little red penny will fill the bucket. Really, it will!

3. SPREAD THE WORD
    Pass the link to my blog to your Facebook friends.
    Forward this link in an email to everyone you know
    Talk about CF to your colleagues at work, to your friends at church, to your buddy at the gym, to your cashier at the grocery store - tell them about the crazy picklepits lady who can't catch a break from her Fabio, who wrestled a pair of skinny jeans (and lost), who swears she's part Gitana and who would walk to the ends of the earth if it meant a cure for CF...tell 'em all...I don't care...
JUST SPREAD THE WORD!

2011 is here.
2011 is now.
2011 is it.

Now let's get out there together & grab it!

HELP WANTED

2011-01-20T11:04:00.000-06:00

By the fourth snooze, I was awake but still not willing give up those last seven minutes of warmth underneath the fluffy down duvet. It was afterall, my day off from the gym and I was hellbent on staying in bed until the last possible moment.  Five hours of sleep does not a Pollyana make - at least not in my world.

So there, I was up.
Up before the birds.
Up before the sun.
Up even before God himself.

Joe will argue that I was born a morning person, but this is simply just not the case. I claim 'victim of circumstance' much more readily than I do a genetic predisposition to waking up early. My earliest childhood memories revolve around swimteam practice at an ungodly predawn hour. Then there was the stint as a newspaper carrier back in the 80's when child abductions plagued suburbia. I remember waking at 4AM just to ensure that there would be time enough to get the route bundled and delivered before heading to swimteam practice at 5 and then off to school by 6:30.  By the time I hit college I was so used to getting up early that it just made sense to get my classes out of the way so I could have the rest of my day free. As my sorority (sorority girl, Moi?!?) sisters stumbled into the bathroom to get ready for the day I had already finished my third class, worked out and was getting ready to head to the coffee house on O Street. Post graduate life was no different. Wake up, work out, clean up, drive in...voila! I'm done.

Am I used to this routine? Well after 30 some odd years of it, I'd have to say yes. Yes, I am. But that doesn't mean I don't get tired. As was the case this morning when I beat that alarm clock into submission.

Once.
Twice.
Thrice. Do people even say that word, 'thrice'?
Anyway, my point is this. It was dark. It was cold. And I was tired.  I had one pissy diaper pressed up against a shoulder blade and a second one smashed up against my cheek. Not even the 'aroma' wafting through a soggy bag of piss could rouse me. I simply did not want to get up.

But I did.

~~get ready for work~~
~~let Luna out~~
~~empty the dishwasher~~
~~switch out the laundry~~
~~set the table for dinner~~

And then the first one woke up...

~~change her diaper~~
~~give her vitamins~~
~~warm her chocolate milk~~
~~get her dressed~~
~~comb her hair~~
~~prep the nebs~~
~~hook her up & start treatment~~

as the second one started to rumble...

~~prep the bottle~~
~~lay out clothes for the day~~

while the third one, bless him, slept.

~~prep his chocolate milk~~
~~lay his clothes out for the day~~
~~empty the backpack & hang on front door~~
~~pack hat & mittens in his backpack~~

It was still dark.
It was still cold.
But by 6:30AM I had accomplished more than the U.S. Army. Well, not really but it was an ego boost to think so.

Before racing out the door towards work, I would wake up Joe who had fallen asleep (again) on the couch in the basement. He would be so grateful to me for getting up on my 'day off'' to help him get his day with the kids started.

One treatment down meant one less 'deal with the devil' that he'd have to make that morning. One less diaper to change would be one less wrestling match with The Prizefighter. One less trip upstairs to pick out clothes that never match would mean a good impression at the doctor's office - important not to him but to his Type A wife. And he would spring up from the leather couch, hoist me up in his arms and carry me up the basement stairs all the while stroking my ego with praises of "You're amazing! I don't deserve you!" At the front door he would pull me in tight, bend me over backwards and plant a passionate kiss worthy of a Harelequin romance novel cover "Goodbye, my love. I'll be counting the minutes until you get home..."

Well, evidently the memo on my fantasy never went out and instead of Fabio, my descent down the basement steps was met by Al Bundy asleep like a baby amidst Hurricane Hugo's aftermath. There lay Joe, my snoring husband face down in a small puddle of his own drool and surrounded by a crime scene. We had been vandalized. Again.

Every single puzzle dumped onto the floor.

Every single book off of the bookshelf.

Every single Matchbox car (of which there are roughly 4,324) strewn about.

Every single stuffed animal thrown in a heap.

Every single doll house furniture piece 'rearranged' on the floor.

Every single dvd out of its case.

Every single inch of plastic Thomas the Train track laid out, unconnected.

Every single bandaid (yes, Band-aid!) out of its 500 count box and taped to the leather couch.

And my Fabio, our King of the Castle laid out on the couch, one hand dangling over the empty bowl of potato chips and the other just daring me to beat him to death with it, snoring away. His only salvation: the fleeting thought back to that website reminding me that things could be so much worse for us, for him.

I stomped up the stairs, annoyed as all hell.

I cussed up a storm on my drive in to work.

I inhaled a pot of coffee and outlined the Come to Jesus Family Meeting we would have later that night.

Then, exhausted from my rant, overwhelmed at the thought of the chore that awaited at home and disappointed that my morning's efforts had gone unnoticed, unappreciated, the solution became all too obvious: I, no, WE needed help. We were outnumbered in need of a lifeline.
And so I'm posting it here first, convinced that the power of the Internet will see me through.

WANTED: WIFE

A MINX JINXED

2011-01-14T11:44:00.000-06:00

When it comes to fashion, I am, in no uncertain terms, my own worst enemy.

Practicality trumps design every time. Take a walk through my closet and you'll see what I mean. If like food, clothing had an expiration date, the Department of Health would have shut my closet down eons ago. A walk through my closet is like a walk through the history books of bad taste. Try as I might, I have just never been able to put two and two together. I'm like an idiot savant, always going back for more beige straight legs and v-neck knit tops.

So last weekend I decided to take a stand. Garbage bag in one hand and visions of Milanese catwalks to guide me, I hit the master bedroom closet with a vengeance. Goodbye elastic waist bands. Sayonara prêt-à-porter t-shirts in eight different colors. I would donate my fashion faux pas to the homeless of Des Moines. Surely the guy waving the cardboard sign on the corner of 86th and Hickman would love my gray parachute pants with the baby poop stains down the right front leg. My prized and highly coveted red Spanish rebeca from '94 study abroad was still in one piece save for the missing button and worn right elbow. Why not pass it along to the lady on 8th and Grand who wears that tattered windbreaker from '85? Isn't a ten year update considered an upgrade no matter what the decade?

Closet emptied, utilities paid, and credit card balance back to zero, I was now ready to take on the monutmental challenge of updating my look.  There would be only one rule by which to abide:  I would not purchase a thing, not even underwear, from any store that made shopping carts available to the general public.

Buh-bye Target.
auf Wiedersehen Walmart.
Costco? Adios, amigo. May we never meet again.

I was going to shop like a REAL woman; in a store that sold clothing, not tires or lawn furniture.   Now, in light of the fact that I have not won any recent lottery, this was a project in-the-works so to speak. I would set aside a small portion from each paycheck and 'invest' it in a new wardrobe piece until I had restocked the closet with items made post Y2k. Garbage bags overflowing, I would be lucky to get this accomplished within the next 3 years but hell, I was more than willing to give it a shot.  And so it went. I grabbed the keys to my ride - the sexy, white minivan parked out front because the garage was now a post Christmas toy lot - and then high tailed it out to the mall.

The ride over was two steps up from pleasant and bordering on euphoric. A silent ride with no squabbling kids in the car, no Thomas the Train DVD blaring in the background...yeah, you know the ride - not well, but you know it. Me, Myself and I set free by the closet purge and on our way to chasing down the invisible errand. I was about to discover a whole new side of myself and in the spirit of the makeover, I swung in to Caribou for {gasp} a house coffee. Cheers to Me!  January 2011 would be my comeback year - THE YEAR I TURNED MINX.

Well, not quite.

Parked at the mall, I threw my head back, shaking my invisible Farah Fawcett mane after that last swig of medium roast.  Grabbing my purse--well, okay 'diaper bag' - the one bulging with wallet, 3 sets of keys, day planner, empty baby bottle, 'just in case' diapers in 2 different sizes, ziplock baggie of wet wipes and about 55 broken crayons nestled at the bottom I set out for the mall. I'll admit, there was attitude in my walk across the parking lot. Not quite full saunter but a definite click in the step. Look out, Giselle I'm workin' this runway.   I was well on my way to channeling my 37 year old hottie. While Pam Anderson still had her boobs and Botox, I had a fresh paycheck and the homeless man in post partum duds from 5 years ago as incentive. He was NOT going to outshine me. Pam? Yeah, probably. But not the guy sporting my throwaway threads.

I'm buyin' some hipster skinny legs.  Ones with an ultra short zipper. Oh yeah....
Gettin' a new shirt too. With buttons down the front. Didja' hear me? I said BUTTONS. Oh yeahh...
I may even get some new boots. With a pointy, bonespur makin' heel. Oh yeahhhhh...

That's how I strutted into Jordan Creek Mall: completely and totally full of myself.
J.CrewBananaRepublicAnnTaylorExpressTheGapAbercrombie&Fitch...
They were all there. Open and ready for my business. And there I was Pam Anderson suddenly turned Hellen Keller. A fish out of water, I was definitely out of my element. Where were the signs marked Automotive, Pharmacy or Electronics to light my path? Suddenly so alone I had been swallowed whole by the mall's atrium; intimidation and uncertainty washing over me like waves of nausea before diarrhea strikes. Where in the hell was Annie Sullivan to help me navigate this misadventure? Oy vey.

To be honest, I don't even know which store I stumbled into first - probably J. Crew given its proximity to the mall entrance. Old habits die hard and I made a beeline for the rounders on the back wall, grabbed three pairs of skinnies off the sales rack and darted into an empty changing room. Off with the old and on with the new but wait a minute, Whoa Tiger! Why is the button sitting so far below my c-section scar? Is that normal?   That scar is at least a mile to the south of my belly button, maybe even more.  Uhm Houston, we have a problem.  I gave a good tug but after about 15 seconds they slid past my little boy hips right back under the scar, the zipper ending a little too close for comfort if you know what I mean.  I then made the mistake of trying to put my shoe back on thinking somehow that shoes would right this obvious wrong.  Tilting awkwardly to my right to slip a finger in behind my heal, I shot straight up again as the waistline of the pants licked my butt crack on its way down the last half mile.

What the hell?!

So ass crack is the style nowadays? Great.

Just how did Mr. J. Crew figure that I was going to be able to heft Henry on one hip, Lola on the other and wrangle Charlie by a hand with my ass hanging out in the breeze? Would Child Protection Services be called out on me? Last time I checked the PTA had no dresscode but postpartum rumpshaker was probably more than pushing it.

Pair number two was no better. And three even worse. Pissed, I kicked my leg furiously back and forth as if trying to fling steaming dog shit off the bottom of a new shoe. Then I went to hunt down a sales clerk.

"Uhm, hi there. Look, do you have anything with a slightly higher rise? I think that's what you call it. I'm just looking for something that doesn't hit me so...uhm...so...you know, so....low. Ya' know what I mean?"

The kid just stared at me.

I tried again, "I guess I need something that's not so lowrider."

Blank stare.

Was I speaking Russian? Did I have a unicorn horn sprouting from my brow? Yo Gabba Gabba! Wanna acknowledge me?

"Well, if you're looking for Women's Jeans you might wanna try the department stores."

Excuse me?
I know you're not sending me out for camel toe and 'Mom jeans'.
Are you?

"Yeah, Dillards will probably have something more your style."

Okay. So Pam Anderson, I'm obviously not. But I'm also no Carol Brady either. I had spent the better part of the last six months shaving the bulk of my muffin top off and I was not gonna leave that mall without a decent pair of pants and a label that proved that I paid too much, dammit!

Was it my fault that my hips had no curve whatsoever to hold up the pants crafted by a Taiwanese orphan chained to his sewing machine and beaten for using too much fabric?
I don't think so.

Was it my fault that the past 6 months worth of sit ups had done nothing for the fallen soufflé that was now my midsection?
I don't think so.

J.Crew, bite me. I'll take the fuckin' pants.
And so it was. $42.38.
The price, evidently, of my pride.

MY MCNIGHTMARE

2011-01-08T08:24:00.000-06:00

For us, it sometimes seems that there are two worlds when it comes to CF. The world of pancreatic sufficiency and the world of not. To the layman this may be new ground. Pancreatic sufficiency? What's that? I thought CF was a lung thing. What's the pancreas got to do with it? Quite a bit, actually.

For upwards of 85% of those fighting the effects of CF, the pancreas is a real thorn in the side. Literally. Do the math and that's roughly 25,500 individuals who are not only fighting for every breath but also fighting to keep their bodies adequately nourished. You'll recall that one of the major nightmares associated with CF is the thick, tarlike mucus that gets stuck, plugged up if you will, in the airways of the lungs.  This crud, for lack of a better word, also coats the intestines and pancreas causing the digestive enzymes that your pancreas makes to be unable to reach your small intestine. These enzymes help break down the food that you eat. Without them, your intestines can't fully absorb fats and proteins thus impeding the nutrients from getting to where they need to go. Kind of a rough problem to have don't you think? Break down the 'malnutrition' euphemism and I'm talking about some really important vitamins not being absorbed into the body which can make for a real mess. Imagine eating a full meal and not getting any nutritional bang for your buck; instead, it running straight through you like water through a seive.

Take vitamin A for example. Wanna have some skin problems? Okay then, eliminate it.

Then there's B12. Wanna be anemic for a while? Fine with me, nix that one too.

Don't forget about vitamin D. If you're up for some bone abnormalities axe it along with A & B12.

Oh yeah, let's not leave out vitamin E.  Neurological problems, anyone? Really? Okay, zap it.

You want some more? Fine. I'll raise you some blood clotting issues for your vitamin K.

Vitamins A, B12, D, E and K are what I think of as the BIG 5 when it comes to CF. I'm usually on the edge of my chair when Elaine, the dietician on our team, reads off the kids' levels from the blood tests.  I don't know about you but I think it's high time we had a Pancreas Appreciation Day.

Lucky for Charlie and Lola, we are still living in the world of the other 15%. Yep, in one aspect of CF we actually won a prize: pancreatic sufficiency. Both kids have a pancreas that is fuctioning enough to get by. Enough meaning, nope, it's not quite normal like the average Joe's, but it is managing to process enough of the goods that we don't have a regimen of enzyme pills to pop before every meal. As I type this, I wrap a couple knuckles loudly on the wooden table where my laptop sits; once for good luck, twice for continued good luck and a third time just to be sure Whomever heard me the first two times. We were told from the git go that pancreatic sufficiency can be a fleeting thing, often waning as time goes by. So for the time being, I rewind and hit play every few days or so just so I can hear my pediatrician's words of wisdom from way back when we got Lola's diagnosis, "Enjoy the good health while you have it..." That said, we pay very close attention to the kids' diets; in short, what goes in AND (drumroll) what comes out.

Even before we became a CF family, we were particularly Nazi in our menu selection for Charlie. The kid never knew what Gerber was because his Papa made all of his baby food from scratch - typically Spanish if I do say so myself. Breast milk for the first year, formula never touched his lips. The poor kid never even had a cookie or ice cream until well after his second birthday. Abusive? No. Neurotic? Perhaps. And quite naturally, we were the laughing stock of the entire extended family.

Overprotective.

Anal.

Ridiculuous.

Whatever. We had our premie, he was more than thriving and Joe and I made a pact that no matter what the cost, our kids would ALWAYS be given REAL food for a fighting chance at developing a decent palate. We also agreed that we would never sell out to the convenience of fast food chains or the pleas for Coca Cola. Afterall, what exactly are the nutritional benefits of giving pop to a 2 year old? We figured that if he never had it to begin with, that he wouldn't know what he was missing. And guess what?

We were right on the money.

Charlie ate like a king and was climbing up the growth charts.  The kid was remarkably healthy too, which we attribute to a diet that is rich in fruits, vegetables and fresh proteins. We have consequently followed the exact same philosophy with Lola and now Henry. Until last week.

Yeah, last week was a first for me as a parent.

We were out east at Joe's sister's house; celebrating the birth of Christ and mourning the loss of Babu Mercedes. It was bittersweet; the whole family together but the center of it - the heart - missing. Joe's mom had been fighting one form of cancer or another ever since I had met her some twelve years ago. We were all devastated at the loss - our loss...but thankful that her suffering had finally come to an end and that she had passed with her children at her side. So there we are, fumbling through the ritual that is Christmas, still somewhat numb from the loss but finding the joy through the eyes of the children who are squabbling, playing, teasing...just being kids. At one point, we decided to divide and conquer a seemingly insurmountable to-do list by splitting the kids up amongst the adults. We took off, tackled our respective lists and met back at the house to debrief. And this my friends is where the double homicide nearly occurred.

SIL: Lola, did you tell Mamá what you had for lunch today?

Me: Did Tita Susi and Tita Pepis (note: Pay-peace, not Pepsi) take you out for a special lunch, honey?

Lola: [grinning from ear to ear] Mmmmhmmm.

Me: What did you eat?

Lola: MADONNAS
Me: [hopeful yet worried] Madonnas?
SIL: No, she means MCDONALD'S. And you shoulda' seen her! What a machine...she went to town on it!

Me: [jaw clenched, forced grin and feeling like I want to crap all over her white carpet] What did you order for her? Chicken nuggets?

SIL: Are you kidding me? A BIG, greasy hamburger. You shoulda seen her wolf that thing down!

Me: [dryly] Well, I hope she enjoyed it because it will be the last one she ever eats.

The maniacle fits of laughter spouting from my sisters-in-law sent me out the front door and around the block on a fast walk. Pissed doesn't even come close to describing how I felt at that point. I was furious. Go ahead, feed that garbage to your kid, but not mine. Hadn't they seen Jamie Oliver's experiment? Well yeah, it was considered by most to be an 'epic failure' but it sure did illustrate a point. We had invested nearly 5 years in teaching the kids about what a heatlhy choice is and why it's in their best interest to eat for fuel and these two knuckleheads had undermined everything in 2.2 minutes. INTENTIONALLY.

I decided to let it go and left it on the back loop of the sub division. The damage was done. Ronald McDonald had found his way to my little girl's digestive tract. I'd just have to keep a closer eye on her the rest of the week - no more 'errands' with the Titas, that was for sure. So not wanting to make a scene, I trudged back to the house and vowed not to make an issue out of it. Afterall, the more I drew attention to it, the more the kids would remember the whole thing. I would give the Titas a Get out of Jail Free card and chalk up the lapse in judgement to extreme grief. For now it was best to let sleeping dogs lie.

Now reading this, I know there are some eyeballs rolling so let me explain my point of view on the whole fast food boycott. I know that for many with CF, especially those who are struggling with digestive issues, that food becomes a major focal point. I've heard so many talk about pumping in those extra calories in any way, shape or form because the effects of CF really make it a challenge for people to keep weight on. For me however, I struggle with the concept of 'anything goes' just to get the calories up. When I think about how that processed food is made; the chemicals, the grease, the scraps, the fat - it just cannot be good for your body at all. I think about foreign nations who perhaps aren't so developed as we are and I wonder, how come I never read about them having a high rate of obesity, heart disease, cancer, diabetes, etc.? I'm no scientist - in fact I'm about as far left of scientist as one could possibly be. However, I believe to my core that good nutrition has made a difference in the health of my kids - less flu, less colds, less everything and I'll be damned if I'm gonna sell out now.

As for Lola's Date with the Devil? I guess I'll just be thankful that her GI tract is solid enough to handle the garbage that the titas dumped into her.
Grrrrrrrrr....

DOWN BUT NEVER OUT

2010-12-26T12:19:00.000-06:00

How fitting that my last post, some 6 months ago, was titled On Hiatus. It must have been my subconscious writing that day as I really did have no immediate plans to abandon my blog. Apologies aside, I'm back. Now let me catch you up to speed...

Basically, I was feeling like real crap. Crap with a capital C. The kind of crap that you just can't put your finger on so you ignore it, chalk it up to getting older and trudge forward dragging one foot at a time. I knew something was off but I just couldn't quite pin it down. Was it Joe? Was it the kids? Was it work? Was it CF? Was it the house? The dog? The yard? The bills? Uhm, no dumbass it's YOU!

Once I made that startling revelation, I grabbed the phone and made an appointment for a complete physical, something I had neglected to do since turning into a human incubator for the past 5 years. While on hold with the receptionist it dawned on me that I had serviced my car more frequently than I had my own body.  The girl who had once been so responsible about getting a yearly physical, had taken a hiatus on her own health, servicing only her vagina for those nasty postpartum checks once every eleven months. Vagina be damned. Enough was enough.

As I drove to my appointment the following week, I was nervous - sweaty palms kind of nervous. I knew that the scale was not going to be kind and the doctor even less. Let's face it, 4 pregnancies in less than 5 years does not a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model make. I thought back to the old me - the me who had taken up running 8 to 10 miles a day 'for fun'...what had happened to that girl?  I was trapped inside a body that wasn't mine and absolutely everything ached. Doing the math, it was not hard to understand why either.  Since Charlie's birth nearly 5 years ago, I had put on 160 pounds yet had only managed to shed half as much. By the time Henry was born I looked like Jabba the Hut, tipping the scales at 239 pounds. Everyone kept feeding my ego about the pregnacy glow - yeah, it was a glow alright...a red hot mess of a glow.

Dr. K walked in, asked how I was doing and I burst out in tears.

"Not, good..." I snorted. "Not good at all." Between sobs I told her how tired, how depressed, how frustrated, how completely spent I was. I told her about how stressed out I was about cystic fibrosis and how I felt like I was always waiting for the roof to cave in, the other shoe to drop...basically, for the shit to hit the fan. I had practiced on the drive in to work the converstation of me being completely open and honest with my doctor. And for the first time in my adult life, I was. If she was gonna bill my insurance for this visit, she was gonna earn every penny of it, dammit. No more feigning Mrs. Good Patient. I was coming clean.

I'm not one to break apart so easily - at least I like to think so.  Evidently, though this is not the case. It was kind of like a breach in a dam; once the leak was sprung, everything came spilling out. She listened, I bawled. She listened some more, I ranted. A little blood work, some urine and a few tissues for the road and I was done. As we say in Spain, pis pas no más. I was out the door.

Life went back to normal - whatever that means and I waited for her call that labs were back and it was time to consider Prozac. Instead, I got a personal invitation to come back in to go over the results. I had a sinking feeling wash over me. Breast cancer? A brain tumor? Schizophrenia? I was a mess.

"Well, we have your labs. Quite interesting really..."

Great, I thought. I'm dead.

"Remember how upset you were at the last visit? How you complained of being so tired, so depressed?"

My throat, dry a as a bone, I barely managed a "Mmmhmmm..."

"Well, I checked your thyroid. Kelly, a normal functioning thyroid will score in the range of 3 to 4; high being in the teens."

Oh God. It's over. I have cancer.

"Your thyroid came in at 136. It's the highest score I've ever seen in more than 15 years of practice."
GASP.

"It explains everything, Kelly. This is why you have been feeling so down. Your thyroid has been underperforming and so your pituitary gland has been dumping excess hormone levels into it in hopes of kick starting it. But what's happening is that it's flooding your system, causing you to be overly tired, lethargic and yes, even depressed."

Screwed yet again by bad genetics. Dammit.

"I'm putting you on a thyroid medication, and a daily dose of vitamin B. We'll follow up in six weeks to reassess and if need be, tweak the dosage."

That's it? No chemo? "Uh, okay."

That was in how my conversation ended with Dr. K on August 17th. Now, 4 months and over 150 miles later, ~~I can say~~, erh...I can shout, "I'M BACK.  THIS BITCH IS BACK!"

At last appointment, my thyroid, cholesterol, and weight were all within normal range and I feel like ME again. Is it the meds? Well yeah, they definitely helped to get things under control but I don't attribute everything to them.  I've been working out daily and working out hard core, like I used to.  The treadmill that once mocked me, now winces when it sees me coming. The .8 of a mile that nearly brought me to my knees is now a cool 10 mile run, balls to the wall as I like to say, with NO pit stops. I hear Ronnie Sharpe pushing me with "...you can do anything for just one more minute, can't you?" I hear CysticGal pounding that treadmill and baptizing those new lungs of hers as HERS. I hear Maylie's fit of giggles as she jumps higher and higher on that trampoline out back. I hear Charlie coach Lola to "take a big breath, hold it as long as you can and let's see who can stay under longer." And the mommy guilt that once was no longer is.  I decided that in order for me to be a good (insert noun), I have to lead by example. How can I ask my kids to adhere to an hour or more daily health regimen if I myself can't even maintain one? If I want Charlie, Lola and Henry to love the feeling of a good workout then it's my responsibility to show them; not just talk the talk but walk the walk. I traded my 5AM drive into school to work on lesson plans that may or may not get rave reviews for a 5AM drive to the YMCA. I kept "21 days to make a habit" as my mantra knowing that if I could stick with it long enough, it would be a need not a just a seemingly intangible want. I tuned out the excuses and plugged in to those who were leading by example; mainly my friends on CysticLife.

Then, almost by dare, I took it up a notch. I signed up for my official comeback. March 20, 2010 I will be running my first half marathon since gosh, I can't even remember how long its been. Of course I'm running for my cause, CF. One of the many rock stars of the CF community, Emily Schaller, has organized a virtual race, Out Run CF. The concept is so genius - sign up to run, pay your twenty bucks (all of which goes to the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation), pick your distance, then no matter where you are on 3/20/11, RUN IT.

I am running to raise funds and awareness for cystic fibrosis. I am running because I have two strong legs, two great lungs and two awesome kids who are chasing good health. I am running because I want to show my kids, all three of them, that comebacks are the norm not the exception.    I am running because I can.

I am running for me.

And I invite you, my long lost friends, to do the same.

RUN. WITH. ME.

ON HIATUS

2010-07-25T14:37:00.001-05:00

It never fails. Whenever I get to a certain point in mowing the yard, my brain kicks into automatic pilot, my to-do list that I've been mentally checking off all morning self destructs and I'm on temporary hiatus from the chaos that is life. This same phenomenon, though perhaps to a slightly lesser degree, used to happen to me back when I could call myself a runner-10 miles here, 6 to 8 there...but let's face it, a husband, three kids and a dog later, those running shoes have seen little action lately.

So there I am today, following the power lawn mower back and forth across the front yard wondering how badly the tan lines from my nursing bra are going to look if I can ever get into normal clothes again and I pass the lightning stunted climbing tree that would usually have 4-6 kids hanging out of it save for the fact that Charlie and Lola have been at Grandma's for the past day and a half, the neighbor kids are pissed and now boycotting our front yard. Anyway, as I pass the tree I squeeze the handle of the mower a little too tightly and feel the power surge and it dawns on me that in doing so I have probably just used up more gas than necessary. And like that my mind takes off like a stallion out of the gates at Churchill Downs and I can barely keep up...

How much gas does this mower hold in it's tank?
More than a gallon? Less than a gallon?
Lemme think now - I can fit 3 gallons comfortably in our side by side fridge, provided they're the Costco kind.
How many gallons did they say BP spilled into the Gulf of Mexico?
Didn't Anderson Cooper report some 1.5-2.5 million gallons since mid April?
MILLION?
No. Impossible. Well, if it IS in the millions we're screwed.
And why do they keep calling it a spill? Isn't a 'spill' more like a one time event?
You know, like, "Hey Charlie, careful now, that's a big-boy cup.  No lid on that one, Buddy. Try not to spill."
All that oil from the live feed camera just above CNN's ticker was coming out full force. That was no 'spill' in fact, it looked more like a massive hemorrhage to me.
How do you spell hemorrhage anyway? One h? Two? I think there's two.
So if BP drilled into the floor of the ocean to hit oil, the pipe then broke....um, yeah, this is some some serious shit.
How many gallons came out again?
Per day?
Per hour?
Total?
How big is the Gulf of Mexico anyway?
And now there are reports of oil coming ashore and settling to the sandy bottom of the sea floor.
How is THAT going to effect all those bottom feeder fish?
Will I ever be able to eat a jumbo Gulf shrimp again without needing a follow-up medical exam?
Won't the birds that survive get sick from eating contaminated fish?
Are the birds that have been rescued smart enough not to fly back into all that crap again?
Geez, how can they miss it? It's everywhere.
Oh crap, there goes the food chain.
Wait a second, didn't they say in high school earth science class that water evaporates off of the big bodies of water, goes up into the atmosphere and then comes down again?
What exactly was it about that water cycle thing again?
I gotta look that up.
So my toilet overflows. Shit is going everywhere. I'm not gonna whip out the Clorox and start mopping the floor. NoSireeJimBob-a-Rooney. I'm gonna turn the danged thing off.
Yeah, common sense says to TURN.IT.OFF!
What were they thinking?
Plug the damned thing.
Now.
And hey, Mexico. You too Central America, Cuba, and while we're at it, South America - newsflash: it's your water too!
Can't that Gulf stream spin that crap down around the tip of Florida and whip it up the Eastern Seaboard?
Well, helllllllooooo Europe!
Come on, world. Get off your butts and react to this.
It's a stinkin' mess!!
HELP!
How many platforms are out there anyway?
Who's regulating them?
Hell, what good is regulating them when your drilling into the bowels of Mother Earth?
Jesus. This is insane.
Where did we buy the gas for this mower?
Did it come from a BP station?
Note to self, gotta boycott BP.
Nope. Not gonna double cut the lawn today.
Maybe I should stop mowing altogether.
Wouldn't the neighbors just love that?
Better yet, I should get Joe to do his ridiculous crab grass removal strategy which involves matches and a bit of pyromania on the entire front yard and not just the bad spots
No, wait!  We could burn a message into the front yard so that all of the NW flights that fly over our house can look down and see in giant letters

F     U     B    P

Yeah. That's it.

Hang on, sister. There's more to it than just oil...
It's deforestation.
It's lack of recycling.
It's global warming.
It's lack of potable water.  95% of the world’s cities still dump raw sewage into their water supplies. Really? Come on, people.
It's food safety and chemical contamination. Genetically modified crops, food tainted with salmonella and E.coli bacteria, milk and other food containing hormones or antibiotics, baby formula laced with perchlorate (a chemical used in rocket fuel and explosives)...
No wonder our insurance rates keep climbing.
It's pandemics and superbugs. Swine flu. Avian flu. Resistance to antibiotics. 70% of which are fed to healthy pigs, poultry and cattle, and end up in our food and water supply.
How's THAT?
It's nuclear energy.
It's...it's...it's...enough already.
Screw the yard.
I'm going back to running.
My butt and thighs will thank me.
My unbalanced postpartum hormone levels are too unstable for this shit, that's for sure.
Oh yeah, and one last thing.

F     U     B     P

Viva Espana

2010-06-12T22:37:00.000-05:00

For your information, I was the geek who sat front row center of your high school Spanish class. The one who had not just her hand but her entire arm straight up in the air after Senora's every question. For those old enough to remember Mr. Kotter, I was the Horshack and the class was AP Spanish. On any given day you could walk by the room, peer in and see me leaning so far over in my desk chair that it teetered on the brink of tipping over, my fingers straining skyward with an added frantic wiggle at the tips to alert Senora that I knew the conditional tense of ser and could use it in a sentence. I annoyed my classmates to no end as I parroted the accents coached by my teachers, "Carmen estaaaaah en el baño. Me guuustaaah la sopa pero no puedo comer maaaaahs." By the time I was a Senior my family had sponsored four different foreign exchange students, I was stealing the monthly copies of Hola magazine from our local public library and I had convinced myself that Prince Juan Carlos and I had a future together. Good times alright...good times.

Although things didn't work out for good ole' PJC and me, I did manage to land myself a Spaniard. Joaquin Jose Geist aka Joe, Joey, El Americano...he's all mine. And together we have three kids, a dog, two cars, a clubhouse out back and a tree swing out front. Life is pretty good, I must admit. Yet we are cashing it all in. Not for more but rather for it. A chance at our wildest dream come true: a permanent move to Spain.

The question inevitably comes up: Are you guys really moving to Spain? But why? Why Spain? Even my Spanish friends ask me this. And I'm left there scratching my head, trying to sum it all up in a sentence or two before the moment passes. Usually I just smile uncomfortably, shrug and give a lame, "Well, we just love it there," which is true but it's actually a lot more complicated than that. At least I'd like to think so. So I think I'll take a detour from my rant on cystic fibrosis and concentrate on putting this question to bed once and for all. Here's the because in no particular order...

PLEASE PASS THE SOCIALIZED MEDICINE

During the work week I see my children for less than three hours a day; 30 minutes of which they are strapped in to their Vests and doing treatment. Talk about a captive audience. I realize that some of this is my own doing since I leave for school when it's still dark out and am almost always the first teacher to arrive in the building. I'm a morning person and I use the quiet that is an empty school building to my advantage...whether it's grading papers or lesson planning...all in the name of keeping work at work and not cutting into my family time at home. I usually get home, barring any after school meetings, around 4pm. This leaves me slightly more than 3, sometimes closer to 4 hours to reconnect over dinner, bath time, and treatment. In spite of having summers, Thanksgiving, Christmas and Spring Break off, I've managed to miss most of my children's major milestones: first steps, first words, first self inflicted haircut...I spend more time with other peoples children than I do my own and THAT really bothers me.

I'm the first to admit to being a working mom by necessity, not by choice. I work because without my job we would have no health insurance, dental insurance, or life insurance. I tried to go half time following Lola's birth and it killed us financially. The cost of health insurance for our family devoured 85% of my meager paycheck that year. It was shocking, to say the least. Though the perks of my husband's self employed status are many, it is stressful to feel the weight of your family's medical well being upon your shoulders. So many times I have shuddered at the thought of the current layoffs at school hitting us. Losing my benefits would be like losing a major limb. I don't know if we would survive it. And so I continue to work full time...not for bread and butter but for the safety net that is insurance.

Enter socialized medicine! Spain is a democratic monarchy. And in Spain, everyone is entitled to health care. Free health care, that is. Are there long lines for waiting? Yep. That is, if you're going in for a tummy tuck or a twisted ankle. But for the major stuff, you will be just fine. You won't die from waiting in line in the E.R. if you're having a heart attack. You won't have to wait your turn to give birth either. And best of all, chronic conditions, such as CF, are treated as priority. CF patients are seen at accredited care centers routinely every two months. This is actually more often than the kids are seen here in the States. Also, because there is no FDA to contend with, Europe is seeing some pretty quick turnarounds for agressive drug therapies aimed at cystic fibrosis. While the kids do not (yet) have a health regimen that includes any of the hard core drugs, we would like to be positioned to receive them if the need arises. Remember your last trip to the pharmacy? How much did you end up paying? Was your copay enough to handle it? Some of my CF mama friends are spending more than $10,000 a year on drugs to keep their kids up to snuff. One gal pal met her full year's deductible at her first pick up at the pharmacy for that plan year. What gives? Why so expensive? Is the mass marketing by pharmaceutical companies really improving the quality of meds by that much? I think not. In Spain, it is illegal for pharmaceutical companies to advertise. You enter a pharmacy over there and you won't find hourly employees peddling chips and salsa, Hallmark greeting cards or nail polish in 65 different colors. What you will find is a pharmacist and drugs. That's it. The Spanish government subsidizes prescription medicine by 75% and negotiates a cap on what pharmaceutical companies can charge. The consumer reaps the benefit by only having to come out of pocket for 25% of the cost of the drug. And of course, once you put something in a plain white box and "market" it with it's scientific name, you just saved about 300%.

Finally, and arguably just as important, is that a move to Spain will afford me something that I've been aching to do for the last 4 years: retire. I have sacrificed a major portion of the past four years, chained to a job so that we would have good healthcare for our family. As we head to Spain, we do so knowing that we will be afforded the aforementioned benefits because my husband is a Spanish citizen and heath care for citizens and their immediate family is much more than just a come hither perk. It is a right. I'll be able to stay at home with the kids and Joe will finally be able to get back to his travel schedule and grow his business to where it should be instead of changing diapers and thawing out breast milk while simultaneously taking client calls for more tile. Aaah, the beauty of Internet commerce in all of its glory.

2. BILINGUALISM OR BUST

My husband was born and raised much of his life in Spain. His father, an American pilot for TWA, spoke to him exclusively in English. His mother, a flamboyant, dark-haired gypsy from Andalucia, raised him speaking purely Spanish. It was a strange mix, those two made. Nearly a dozen years later and I still have vivid memories of that first Thanksgiving with my future in laws. Neither his mother nor his father were fluent in their second language - can you imagine? "Please pass the pavo, amor." "A toast to our invitada, chin-chin!" Dinner was a smorgasbord of Spanglish and to this day I still don't know how those two managed to stay married as long as they did. Maybe their success lied in the fact that they often did NOT understand one another. Whatever the case may have been, it worked. And they had the bilingual offspring to prove it.

Joe, my husband, is a rare example of a perfectly balanced bilingual. The linguistic gift given him by his parents is simply incomprehensible. He can small-talk, argue, inform, debate, convince, convict and pray just as easily in Spanish as he can in English. He turns on the Spanish as fast as you or I would flip on a light switch. It never ceases to amaze me and yes, I'm very, very jealous of it. To speak two languages at a level equivalent to that of a native speaker is rare, very, very rare.

With the birth of our firstborn, the plan was for Joe to handle the Spanish and I the English. Fairly straightforward, this approach would ensure that our little guy got off to a rock solid bilingual start. The United Nations convened in our living room and so began the journey towards bilingualism. I posted conversation topics on the kitchen calendar so that I could be sure to chat about the same daily stuff in English;  what he did, what he saw, what he ate, colors, numbers, younameit...we even insisted that the pulmonologist, a Latino, speak Spanish during our CF clinic visits. Believe me, all bases were more than covered. But there was one problem. At every turn, Charlie responded appropriately in English. In short, he refused to speak Spanish. I hypothesize that our son was astute enough to realize that Spanish was the minority language between his parents. Second fiddle, second class, not up to snuff...we failed in terms of modeling its use between ourselves. Somehow, some way, Charlie decided that if Mamá and Papá weren't gonna step to the plate to speak it that neither was he. And so a civil war of sorts began right at the kitchen bar stools and continues to wage on some four years later. A typical passive/aggressive battle sounds like this:

Joe: Oye, nen. ¿Qué te apetece para desayunar hoy?
Charlie: Uhm. I dunno. How about pancakes!?
Joe: No, no quedan. ¿Qué tal si te hago una tortilla francesa de jamon y queso?
Charlie: No. I want pancakes. Omelettes are gross.
Joe: Pues pancakes no hay. A ver si te puedo poner unas Galletas Maria con un vaso de leche manchada. Y si te lo comes todo, un pan tostado con mantequilla y azucar.
Charlie: Okay, but only if you put extra sugar sprinkles on the toast.

If it weren't so darned frustrating, it would be laughable. The fact that our son understands absolutely everything but refuses to articulate anything is maddening. Ask him a question and he'll answer it...in English. Talk about him and he'll correct you...in English. It's enough to drive you to drink, that's for sure.

Enter Spain. Try as we have to get the bilingual thing to happen in our household, it just hasn't taken root. Neither one of us feels comfortable waiting out the next 8 years until the public school system will offer mediocre Spanish classes from a gringo teacher who spent a semester abroad during college some 25 years ago. We're jumping ship in the name of bilingualism. Friends, cousins, aunties, uncles, school, TV, movies...it will ALL be in Spanish. Charlie will have no choice but to speak it, breathe it, eat it, drink it... LIVE IT.  And who knows, maybe he'll be closer to us because of it, not in spite of it.

3. AN EDUCATION FIT FOR THE BIRDS

Next year will mark my tenth year as an ESL teacher. I don't normally like to discuss my views on education because more often than not, I end up offending someone. So if you may be one of those people, now would be a good time to do a rapid scroll to number 4 or buckle up and hold on tight because you're in for a bumpy ride.

Basically, I don't want my kids going to school here in America. While I have managed to remain union free, keep most of the gang related stuff out of my classroom and come up with some pretty fun lesson plans that capitalize on the technology that kids are using today, I have seen more than enough of my fair share of just plain bad teaching and that scares the hell out of me. A school district that rewards teachers based on longevity is neither my idea of progressive nor rigorous, the two buzzwords we hear most often these days. I know more teachers who whip out the same tired, coffee-stained lesson plans year after year than not. I have met and worked with dozens of high school students who are promoted to the next grade level while still unable to read a fourth grade level narrative, sign their name in cursive, identify a verb in the present tense let alone write a complete sentence with one in it. Yet these are the students who will graduate with the same diploma as the valedictorian of their high school class; the one who took four AP classes, worked two part time jobs, ran track and got a full ride to UC Berkley. I have a HUGE problem with that. HUGE.

It's different across the pond. In Spanish schools, the stakes are high for everyone, not just the GT kids. And the students know it. Following each grade level is a final exam. Pass the test and you are promoted. Fail the test and you don't move on with your peers. Period. There is a universal curriculum approved of and enforced by the Spanish Ministry of Education. Ninth grade in Spain is the same across the board, whether you're in Badajoz or Barcelona. You can expect not one but at least two foreign languages because English class is a given. The second one is up to you to decide upon. An End of the School Year Field Trip is to see the Strait at Gibraltar or the Guggenheim in Bilbao, not a free for all at Adventureland or the zoo. Selectivity exams are held to see not only if you qualify to get into college but if you are fit to study your career choice. It's tough. It's stressful. It's selective. And I'm okay with that.

4. BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER

Ask and my husband will say that his fondest memories of growing up in Spain are his summers on the Alicantine beach, sailing up and down the coastline on his catamaran~cruising for hot swedish chicks, I'm sure. He's recounted the same nautical adventures dozens of times and though the stories are entertaining, his face does not light up quite the same way as it does when he talks about the antics of his Titos. I often wonder if he realizes the impact that growing up surrounded by such close family had on his development. I really do wonder...

It's different here.

The nearest cousins we have for Charlie, Lola and Henry are over 1,400 miles away and we see them once a year, if we're lucky. To our Spanish family, the distance is the equivalent to a long haul over to Siberia. They cannot fathom being that far removed from family. In a country where you often find yourself in the same classroom as your cousin Eduardo, and you can stop at an auntie's house for a merienda on the way home from school, American distances are just plain inexplicable. To be fair, we do have one grandparent in town, my mom. She's close with the kids but we don't see her nearly as often as one would assume in fact a once a week or every other week visit is a lot and that's just not right in my book...especially when ours are the only grandkids she has.

We've been shuttling back and forth across the pond for almost ten years now. Our relationship with Joe's cousins remains tight. I can't think of one of his cousins who doesn't have at least one child close to the same age as our own children and the same can be said for his childhood buddies, many of whom still live within a stone's throw of his childhood home. It's exciting to think of the memories yet to be made amongst this brood.  The sooner we can get over there and set up house, the better in my book. I hate to think of yet another Christmas to go by where our children will not be visited by the three wisemen (Titos?) on Epiphany or pelting Papa Noel (Joe?) with oranges as he makes a surprise guest appearance on Christmas Eve.

This past Easter was bittersweet for us. As we watched the kids open their Easter baskets, I cringed as the giant chocolate bunny uncloaked himself. Later that evening, Joe and I would sit amidst the glow of the internet and watch the Easter processions through the candlelit cobblestone streets of Spain. Entire towns were gathered at the main plaza to pay tribute to the Virgin Mary and of course Jesus Christ. I thought about how I had robbed my children of this experience by not being there already. Here I am, in middle America, going to the Mall, running everywhere at a million miles an hour in my car, yet seeing and doing nothing. How many days do I feel like that hamster running to nowhere on her wheel and then doing it all again the next day? Maybe a move to Spain will not be any different, but I'm willing to at least give it a shot, that's for sure.

5. HOME SWEET HOME

For as long as I can remember, Spain has felt like home. We've been there so many, many times that I know the streets well, the vendors better and the best bets for speedy parking. Hell, I even have my own hair dresser there. For me, Spain is not a foreign country at all. I am confident and comfortable there. I don't feel like an outsider in the least, in fact I have felt lonelier and less a part of things on cross country visits right here in the States more than I've ever felt in Spain.

Having lived abroad in Spain back in the early 90's, I fully expect that the honeymoon period that comes with expatriate life abroad will wane...especially as the demands of Joe's business grow and he is forced to travel more. But I'm up for the adventure and have somewhat of an idea of what awaits me so I think it'll all work out...doesn't it always? That, and this is just one of those moments in my life where if I don't follow through, I will forever regret it. I don't want to live my life like that; looking back 5 or 10 years from now and wishing we had gone for it. True to myself, we're jumping in head first, all at once...no such thing as testing the waters with the big toe...nope, we're locking hands and jumping in together...all five of us.

So while it may be true when they say that the grass is inevitably greener on the other side, this I already know. Afterall, I am not so naive as to think that life in a foreign country will not come without its fair share of pitfalls but that my friends is an entirely different blog.

Kinked

2010-05-26T10:22:00.000-05:00

Cystic Fibrosis. Yeah, I can articulate the basics but when it comes down to the science of it all, I know just enough to be dangerous...very dangerous. Lucky for me I have a husband who is really good at taking it all in, digesting it, and then spitting it back to me in laymen's terms which helps immensly when it comes to calming me down at the first sniffle of an oncoming cold or the whistling wheeze heard after a too long hug. It's ironic, really, that my husband the NON multitasker, the NON stress basket of the family, Mr. SoLaidBackYou'dBetterCheckMeForAPulse posesses such a skill. Meanwhile I'm the one schlepping into Clinic with the checklist of questions written out as a laundry list of whatifs and ohbytheways a mile and a half long.

When you boil CF down to the nitty gritty, the bare bones...it's a disease of the cells. There's a broken one in there. Outta commission. Out of Service. On the fritz. And man o man, does that jack things up! Add to it those 1500+ genetic mutations of which you could get two - the whammies - and you'll give yourself a migraine for sure. You see, it's just two genes - the gift or curse you get from your parents, on which everything rides. Sick or not sick, enzymes or no enzymes, lung transplant or not..the lottery that are those two genes can mean the difference bewteen CF or NO CF.

My simple, unscientific mind - the one that sorts underwear by color and pants from fat to skinny has no patience for this disease. We can put a man on the moon. We can click enter and send a ten page document to Europe in less than a hearbeat. We can sew a finger, a toe, a leg or an arm back on. But we can't fix this? Go on now, get in there, dig out that faulty gene and pop in a good one. One that WORKS for Godsake. Geesh! This is why I'm not a scientist, I guess. Screw The Scientific Method. Just get to the answer already. I mean Come On...

May 15th was our annual Great Strides Walk for a Cure. Des Moines managed to pull in over $205,000 - it's most successful walk ever in spite of falling short of it's $225,000 goal. I was pleased, yet miffed. Okay, truth be known, yours truly had managed to work herself down to outright pissed by end of the day. I was pissed that I was pissed...how is that even possible? Well, for starters I was pissed about the fact that there were several family members who did not donate. I'm talking CLOSE family members - people to whom I wouldn't think twice about giving a kidney or bone marrow. Family members whose butts I once wiped. Family members who call to chit chat on a weekly, sometimes daily basis. They didn't even chip in a measly 4 quarters. Come. On. Is the economy that bad? Are they that out of touch? My college roommates from nearly twenty years ago (20?! Gulp.), the Facebook "friend" who's actually a complete and total stranger, my busy as a honey bee in June neighbor who I never talk to but see whizzing by in her SUV....they all donated.

My attitude soured as I took a break from picking apart said family members and thought about the bigger picture. Moolah. Bucks. Cash. Benjamins. Dough. MONEY. The catchy, Money Buys Science and Science Buys Life line that I pimped prewalk started to weigh heavily on me. Des Moines had collected almost a quarter of a million dollars and there were how many other cities walking? Houston, Tampa, Chicago, Seattle...millions upon millions were blowing around, whirling and swirling around and around all in the name of a cure. Just how much money to you freakin' need to cure end this thing once and for all? I've heard it takes a cool $800 million to get a new drug conceived, tested, approved and to market. Are you kidding me? Are we talking dollars or pesos? EIGHT HUNDRED MILLION?!?! For just ONE new drug? What gives? Are the cells charging a participation fee for each clinical trial? Is the new company car for the scientists a Rolls Royce? Is this whole beast just a conspiracy by the pharmaceutical companies so they can create more (profit making) drugs instead of a cure? Pop this gal a Vicodin quick before her head flips off!

The plane was in a huge nosedive, going down fast and I couldn't find the damned parachute. Like always, I did what I normally do. I yelled, no screamed, at my husband about the sink full of dirty coffee cups, slammed every door that I walked through, and then...then I splintered.

You see, I'm not a patient person. No, not me. Not at all. I strum my fingers against the steering wheel, willing the car ahead to go just a little faster so I can make the light. I open the microwave between 1 second remaining and zero just so I don't have to hear its annoying beep. It's half impatience and half OCD. But it's me. So one would think I would know better than to cruise out to the CFF.ORG website post walk. Like always, I lie to myself, telling myself that I'm going to look up walk results of friends and acquaintances. But I'm coming clean - it's a lie. It's always the same lie - a different excuse maybe but the same lie nonetheless.

Like a fool I'm a much too frequent visitor of http://www.cff.org/. I'm a fool not because I visit so regularly but because I expect to see something other than the face of the middle aged physician who pledges, "I will keep working toward a cure." Sorry Buckaroo, no can do. Nope. Not good enough. Each and every time I see his face I let out a heavy sigh to give voice to my disappointment at the absence of what I have been waiting for since diagnosis: "We are Pleased to Announce That The Cure Has Been Found." How many times in fact have I seen that guy's face? A hundred? Five hundred? A thousand? I don't know. The point is, it's still there. His face. His promise. And I'm tired of waiting on promises. I want a cure. Did you hear me? I WANT A CURE NOW.

So pardon me if the apathy of a few has wet my feathers. I know life is too short to wallow. I just had to purge it. I'm human afterall. My feelings get hurt, I whine a little and then I move on, past all the bullshit and onto the next line item.

The kink in my line is fixed and I can go back to life as I know it...crayola on my leather couches, fundraising for a cure, dog hair on my kitchen floor, a husband who snores the whole night through, more fundraising, students who forget homework that was never done and don't let me forget, more fundraising for a cure...you know the drill.

Oh, and by the way, thanks for the purge.

A Baracuda's Fight

2010-05-24T09:36:00.000-05:00

I've never been one to test the waters with a big toe first. No, not me. I just plunge in, usually head first too. Impulsive, yeah that's the word for it. Impulsive. Yeah, that's me.

And that's what happened last week. I was in such a state. A state of frenzy. A state of panic. A state of desperation. Such a state that I didn't think it through. No proofreading. No editing. Nope, not last week. I just threw it up there front and center. The chipin link to Conner's Fund was a hot potato in my hand. I had to pass it off FAST and so I copiedcutpastedandposted as fast as I could get my little mouse to click. I impressed myself with my technological skills, I really did. But in reflection, I'm thinking my haste hindered more than it helped.

I gave you a bun with no burger. No meat. Where's the beef, Kelly? Huh??

What I should have done I'm doing now. As I have the tendency to get long winded, I've got to keep this to a soundbite. And here it is:

My friend needs help. Now.

She has been waiting for seven years for a cure. But it hasn't come.
She has searched everywhere for alternatives. But she has not found one that worked.
She has turned her back on death. But it has found her little boy.

My friend's little boy, her Boy Wonder, is dying. Conner is dying. The doctors have given up. But my friend has not. She is fighting like a baracuda. Fighting with every ounce of her being. She is a ferocious lioness thrashing about to save her cub.

But he is still dying.

I feel desperation. I feel grief. I feel so incredibly helpless. As a mother I cannot even imagine waking up to her nightmare. As a CF mom, I know the possibility looms.

So before my soundbite ends, I implore upon you to jump in. Jump in with both feet. Make a huge splash - much like that of this baracuda of a momma. Make a donation to Conner's account. All monies collected are going towards his funeral expenses. Yes, you heard me. Somewhere way out west, on top of the USA, a mother is guiding her baby to the heavens. She has written about this journey, this nightmare, on her blog. Go, see for yourselves. It's real. She's real. Conner's real. And then pass this along. Email it, Facebook it, talk about it...but reach out to another so the word will spread.

Because they need our help. Sarah and her family need our support, our compassion, our prayers. Now.

Whether it's 5, 10, or 50 bucks it would help immensely. Please, please, whatever you can do, do.

And then pray. Again.

xo
k.

For Conner

2010-05-20T07:50:00.000-05:00

Random Thought No.2

2010-05-19T21:57:00.000-05:00

It's high time to get down and scrub the kitchen floor when not even Luna shows any interest whatsoever in the 5 second rule.

Prize Fight Loser

2010-05-14T14:46:00.000-05:00

So you know, my birth certificate reads blond, of that I am certain because I looked just the other day while filing Henry's in the lockbox downstairs. However, pregnancy has betrayed me and with each addition to our family my hair has grown darker and darker. About six months ago, while still pregnant with Henry, I decided to bite the bullet and color my hair back to it's "natural" color...whatever that was to be. In 36 years I've been every shade of blond: natural, dirty, ashy, platinum, highlighted, lowlighted, you name it. It was high time for a change and with just enough pregnancy hormones to render me certifiable, I plopped down in my stylist's chair and dared, "Go ahead, surprise me. Just don't make it blond." A ballsy move considering I get my hair cut at the beauty school. But I was resigned to make a change...a real statement. That, and I was tired of whipping out the Benjamin's every three months just so I could keep living the lie.

Lucky for me, a week's worth of snickering was about all I had to endure from my family. After the initial shock and awe wore off, they were quite supportive. "Mama, I really like your clown hair," offered Charlie as we drove home from preschool one day. Nothing like a compliment from a four year old to keep things in perspective. I was trying hard to like it too but let's face it, after a lifetime of eating steak, it's hard to make the switch to hamburger. In that first month as a brunette, I jumped everytime I passed the mirror in the foyer thinking that there was an intruder in the house. I just couldn't get used to myself as the sultry vixen, the Sophia Loren that I was trying so desperately to channel.

Fast forward to last week. Spring was in the air and I was finally getting my groove back on. I had determined that the New Me could actually pull off this look so long as I had not forgotten to put makeup on that day. Normally, I'm not much of a primper but the change in hair color made me feel as though I owed at least half as much effort to the rest of me. Never one to overdo it, I was content with some eyeshadow, mascara, and if really trying to sex it up, some bronzer. And I looked good - not Alicia Keys sexy by any stretch - but good. That is, until I decided to take it up a notch.

It had been a while since I had gotten my eyebrows waxed. Actually, like a year had gone by. With three kids all under the age of 5, eyebrows are not high up on my list of priorities in fact, it's a miracle that I'm even able to get a shower and clean change of clothes. Brow waxes are few and far between these days, that's for sure. So to save time and money, I decided to grab the bull by the horns and "do it myself" - a common theme in my life as of late.

"You sure about this honey..." ventured my husband, "remember what happened last time?"

Rolling my eyeballs, I shot back a defensive, "Puh-LEEZE. I've got it under control, relax!" And as soon as the troops had settled in for the night, I whipped out my wax kit, reviewed my notes, and banned my husband from the kitchen.

Like the opening bell of a prize fight, the steady beep from the microwave anounced Round One. I got up from my corner barstool and headed for my scalding brew. The hot wax cooling, I studied it. It seemed to seethe arrogance, daring me to dip a finger in it's caramel colored glaze that reeked of burnt skin. A little foreshadowing on my part? Perhaps. Nonetheless, I was itching with anticipation. In a matter of seconds I would rip years off of my age. I'd go to school the next day looking at least ten - hell, maybe even 15 years younger! That's the beauty of a good wax job - the little something that leaves people wondering just WHAT did she have done?

Hot enough to do the job but cool enough to not send me to the ER with third degree burns, the wax was finally ready. I stirred it one last time for good measure then lifted a quivering popcicle stick to my eyelid and dragged it slowly across, making sure to get every little hair that was in its path. Next came the linen strip. Cool and soft, I laid it atop the oozing wax. I stroked it once. Twice. Three times. Then a fourth. In one clean motion, my thumb and index finger yanked in reverse. RRRRRRRIIPP!

Not bad. Not bad at all.

I examined the strip and smirked at the trail of eyebrow hairs stuck to the pad. In one shot I had even managed to get the peach fuzz from the lid. HA! And you want me to pay 15 bucks for THAT? I turned to the lighted mirror to admire my handiwork.

Fuck. Me.

Staring back from the mirror was Vanilla Ice. I had singlehandedly ripped off the better half of my own eyebrow. I looked once. Twice. A third time. Then a fourth. Yep, it was gone alright. Once a budding Sophia Loren, I had involuntarily put myself up for initiation into a gang. But how could this have happened? I had been so careful! Had I furrowed my brow enough to cause my eyebrow to do a curtsie into the hot wax? Had I pressed too hard on the cloth strip and oozed the wax up into uncharted territory?

Not even a steady hand would disguise this disaster for work the next day. As I stood before my first period class, ready to take attendance, a lone voice called out in broken English, "Meees Teeshirt, what you do your face? It look deefrent."

I feigned ignorance. "Different? How do you mean, Nam?"

"I dunno. Someting deefrent."

I would hear that broken sentence from seven different language groups that day. And fortunately for me, not a one would figure it out. I like to think that it was my stellar lesson plan on the glorious future tense that had my students on the edge of their chairs but I know better. So while I await regrowth of the eyebrow that once was, I say goodbye to Sophia and welcome with open arms, Ice. Vanilla Ice, baby.

Word to your Mother.

Beauty and the Beast

2010-05-10T05:31:00.000-05:00

Lola is by all counts, a Tomboy. She'll take a dump truck over a tiara and happily sport a pair of Incredible Hulk underpants any day. When we found out that we were having a girl I ran out and bought dozens of pretty pink dresses with matching tights and shoes. And much to my dismay, they hang to this day, up in her bedroom closet like last week's special at the deli counter. Untouched.

But yesterday was different. We had a turn. A turn towards femininity as my diamond came out from the rough. I pulled up in the driveway to a little girl clad in a matching pink short outfit and dripping with good taste. As I cut the engine, I heard the hollow jingle jangle of 35 multicolored plastic bracelets slide down to her elbow when she threw up her arms to greet me. A crooked bow pinned down a chunk of hair unwilling to be tamed and a gangle of baubles dribbled down her chest, each one tangled in the next.

My Tomboy now a Beauty.

Clinic, and by that I mean CF Clinic, was just two days away. We had to race over to the doctor's office to get her chest xray and labs drawn so that they would be ready and waiting on Wednesday for the Good Doctor.  I let experience park the car in front of radiology and we practiced saying "Cheese" as we strolled through the parking lot - me with a purse full of medical orders and she with a purse full of Matchbox cars. The lab would take the backseat. I knew better this time.

Jingle, jangle
Jingle, jangle
Jingle, jangle

We made our way to the waiting room and sat alongside the grimmacing woman in the foot cast; Lola accessorizing her right, then her left, then her right arm again and again as the clock's giant red second hand swept around and around.  I worried that they wouldn't get a good, clear image of her lungs.  And that she'd be pissed about having to take off her "jewelry" for the shot. Lucky for me, the technician was a mom too and knew just how to stroke Lola's budding fashionista ego.

"Love the snazzy jewelry you have there lil' lady," she cooed. "Wanna make me look pretty too?"
Hook, line and sinker, Beauty took the bait. We got the lateral then frontal images in one try. Next stop: THE LAB.

I dread going to this place, not because I fear needles but rather the people wielding them. I rank phlebotomist right up there with "roadkill removal crew" and can't imagine doing that grind day in and day out. Add to it the nightmare that is taking a small child into this place and you feel my pain.

"It'll be okay honey, they just need to get a little sample from you." It didn't even sound reassuring as it fell out of my mouth. I offered a lame, "Mama's gonna sit with you the whole time. It'll be quick, I promise..." but by then I had lost her. Beauty's eyes were now off of me and darting back and forth from the cheaply framed prints of deer poised at an unnaturally blue stream in some mystical looking forest to the red letters of the exit sign blaring ESCAPE HERE against the institutional beige walls of the waiting room. One door in. One door out. She was trapped and she knew it.

Jingle jangle
Jingle jangle
Jingle jangle

A little hand, dusted with remnants of sidewalk chalk, reached up and grabbed mine. I gave her one squeeze for confidence and another just because.  The woman who checked us in must have forgotten her teeth that day because she didn't smile once. No "Hi! How are you?" from her. No siree, she was all business.

"Take a seat. We'll call you when we're ready."

"Thank you very much," I replied. As if that extra "very much" would buy my daughter a get out of jail free card for what was to come.

The tech approached as Lola's name was called. It was like Vanna White stepping forward to turn a vowel. She was a young one that tech - which I thought could play out one of two ways; maybe she would be one of those twentysomethings who are great with kids and win them over right away or...or...she would be the new hire who couldn't hit a vein on the first try to save her life. Try as I may to be the optimist, I began to hedge my bet on the latter as opposed to the former.

Her loud snap of the rubber glove annoyed me. So cliche, was that really necessary? Beauty was now up in my lap and hoping climb into my shirt to hide. "You're gonna hafta hold her arms and legs while I do this," were this gal's opening words of wisdom. Yep, she was a new hire alright. And obviously barren. Was she crazy? Had she gone out to her car and smoked a joint during her lunch break? Did she really expect me restrain a bucking two year old AND keep the site steady for the draw? Sure, I could pin a leg or two but there was no way I could keep her still enough to get the needle in and keep it in.

I sat there, with Beauty in my lap, contemplating how I was going to pull this off. A black padded armrest saluted us at ninety degrees before it dropped like a guillotuine down in front of us. We were locked in. After that I heard nothing but screams pouring out of my daughter's mouth. Her head thrashed wildly back and forth and too soon her legs fell into synch. Her frantic rhythm mimicked that of a caged wild animal desperately trying to free itself before the slaughter.

Jingle jangle

The plastic bracelets bounced off of each other as she wriggled and fought me. Such strength my little girl has, I thought. I love that she has this energy inside of her but hate that it's a needle drawing it out.

"Hey, Brenda...I need a hand with this one."

Huh? A what? You're in the middle of the procedure. You're asking for help now? I looked down at Beauty's arm and saw the needle plunging in and out again and again hunting for that vein. After about the fifth plunge, it swam to the right, then back to the left, then right again. THE NEEDLE IS IN HER ARM YOU STUPID IDIOT, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?!

Brenda arrived in time to get kicked in the hip. At this point I was so upset with everything that I was secretly cheering for Lola to land as many blows as possible.

"It sounds bad but she's not in any pain. She's just mad that we're holding her down."

My vision, blurred from my own tears, was lost but my voice was not. Through gritted teeth I managed, "Yeah, right. Draw the frickin' blood!" Had her whopping two weeks on the job really desensitized her that quickly? I briefly contemplated grabbing the needle and lunging at the beast, then stabbing her repeatedly in the eyeball. "Oh, it's not painful. You're just upset about not being able to see, right?" would be my condolence as she rolled around, curled up in a fetal position on the cold linoleum floor.

When it was all said and done, the tech collected 3 vials of blood from my little girl. End to end they would have stretched wrist to elbow up my arm; each one of them filled with the deep crimson specimen ordered by the Good Doctor. The contents of these vials would be scrutinized later as we assessed functions of the tiny organs that lay tucked so neatly inside her little body.

The draw now complete, we left the office not hand in hand but head to shoulder. I carried my Aching Beauty out through the lobby and into the parking lot with promises of a better day tomorrow. No one accompanied us out to the car that afternoon. It was just Beauty and I walking away from the beast, her bracelets clumsily acknowledging our feat.

Jingle jangle

Dear Son,

2010-05-04T21:31:00.000-05:00

I've dreamed many things for you; college, the first real job, moving out, marriage...so why did yesterday throw me for such a loop?   One minute you were cruising down the sidewalk at lightning speed on a borrowed Big Wheel and the next you were sailing by on a bike.

A bike without training wheels.

Um, excuse me but when did you learn to do this? You did not ask for my permission to reach this milestone. Weren't you supposed to fight gravity for a week or two?  Wasn't Papa supposed to be worn ragged as he followed you up and down the block, his hand glued to the back of the seat? Where are your skinned knees? Your bloody knuckles? What's next? Writing your name? Reading a book? Tying your shoe? How dare you grow up on me!

Time is passing too quickly. I go to sleep on Monday and wake up to Friday. Spring turns to fall before I've had a chance to even smell the first perfect blooms from the flowering pear tree out back.  And you, you are growing up at rocket speed, racing away from me to do those Big Kid Things that are now just fond memories of my own youth. I watch, no, I study you.  Is it possible to trick a lingering moment and trap it into a memory?

Every beetle is a gazelle in the eyes of its mother, so says the Arab proverb. And you are no exception, my son. No matter how far you ride away from me, you will always be to me my little boy...my Boy Wonder.

A Snowman in April

2010-04-25T07:38:00.000-05:00

There was a time when we had arguably the best yard on the block and with the exception of the old retired guy one cul-de-sac over, possibly the entire neighborhood. We weed wacked, edged, mulched, sprinkled and fertilized to our heart's content. It was pristine. An oasis of emerald green, it beckoned bare feet from as far away as six houses in either direction. One step into that yard and your toes wiggled in orgasmic delight.

Then we had kids.

The weedwacker disappeared behind a team of strollers and the edger was overtaken by a gang of rogue Fisher Price toys. Diamonds, criss crosses, wave and circle patterns were replaced by the same thoughtless horizontal back-and-forth-as-fast-as-you-can-before-naptime-is-over patterns that blanketed the rest of the neighborhood. Our perfect oasis of green had become a desert peppered with crab grass and bald spots. Not even the ChemLawn man could save us. We had reached the point of no return.

This was and still is my reality as I stood before my withering lawn yesterday afternoon. With spring in full bloom and a hint of summer in the air, I decided that a miracle would happen on this day. In the span of an afternoon, I would nurse this baby back to her glory days and all order would be restored. So as soon as Henry went down for his nap, I raced into the garage and wrestled the lawnmower free.

After a few passes, I settled into the task, confident in my ability to undo the damage of the past four years worth of neglect. Charlie was busy across the street constructing a bike ramp worthy of at least one broken bone. And Lola was...wait...where was Lola? Normally her brother's shadow, she was nowhere to be seen. I cut the mower off and headed into the garage. Salvation for the yard would have to come another day.

"Lola?"

No answer.

"Lo-Laaaaaaah. Where are youuuuu?"

Still no answer. Had she wandered down the block in search of cooler toys? Was she small enough to squeeze through the mouth of the sewer drain? Christ, had she been kidnapped?! My mother's panic button was seconds from going off.

"Do you wanna a popcicle?"

A faint rustle came from the back of the garage. Checkmate. I had the rabbit in my crosshairs. Carefully, I maneuvered the obstacle course before me keeping close sight of that tuft of blond hair peeking from behind the parked stroller. What was she doing back there? Was she hiding? Was she okay? Had a paint can fallen and rendered her unconscious? I couldn't get back there fast enough and in my haste, I tripped over 2 plastic grocery carts, a dumptruck and a half eaten tennis ball. Note to self: time to clean out the garage. And then I was upon her. Oh shit!

Oh, shit.

Her big round eyes fixed straight ahead at the plastic blue police car, she wouldn't break the stare to look at me. I knew that look. I had seen it many times before, usually at the dinner table. That was the look that gave her away. And then. Then the smell.

"Lola Geist. What. Have. You. Done!?!" As if I even needed to ask.

"Lola go caca." One point for bilingualism. Too bad it was all over my garage floor.

But where most mothers would be pissed, annoyed, or dismayed, a CF mama is forever curious. Was it going to be a CF poop; greasy, bulky and foul smelling? Was this to be the end of our journey down the road of pancreatic sufficiency? How long would it take me to teach her how to swallow all those enzymes before every meal? I crouched down to get a closer look. Au contraire mon frere! It donned the same shade of brown as my batch of chocolate brownies baked not too long ago and was sprinkled with...was it remnants of green peas from last night's dinner? Not a trace of grease that I could discern and it was beautifully formed. A smallish round head rested upon a portly shaped belly, it had the the shape of a snowman! It was indeed The Perfect Poop.

All jubilation was interrupted when my husband's head popped through the door to the house to announce the end of naptime. Never one to mince words he bellowed, "Henry's up. He wants a BOOB." Aaah...yes, honey. I'm coming.

The sad lawn would wait another week, her crab grass sprouting and her bald spots widening but alas, with the arrival of the snowman in April, a new sense of order had been restored.

A Little Faith

2010-04-19T10:35:00.005-05:00

Two months have come and gone since Henry joined our crazy family. Now we are 5. He's the baby I always dreamed of having; rosy cheeked, easy going and a mini Buddah. Finally, a baby that looks like MY side of the family! The bond between Henry and I was instant. So much more quickly established than with either Charlie or Lola. Funny how that works, isn't it?

It's true what they say about the third child, cast to the wolves to raise. Well, not really. But it is crazy trying to juggle it all, that much I'll admit. Where Charlie had an entire website dedicated to him, Henry had a pre-op Facebook post, gone from the news feed before he could even suckle a breast. Where Lola has a binder full of cards and letters welcoming her into our life, Henry was lucky that I even got his footprints into his baby book. I fully expect that his first meal will be served on the floor. And probably in the garage, poor kid.

Yet he still smiles. He is a dream. Rolly-poly hands, a gummy smile - everything I always dreamed of. In eight short weeks it's already impossible to imagine our family without him. "Hey little fell-owe, you wanna' play cars?" invites Charlie. When he awakens it is Lola who announces to the family, "Hen-Weeeeeeee wake! Hen-weeee wake!" The Three Muskateers, that's my crew.

My cousin theorizes that his red hair shielded him from CF. Of that I'm not so sure...he still got that nasty, sonofabitch Delta F508 gene. That little speck of a gene is what I hate most about myself. Big boobs and muffin top aside, that despicable gene is my number one nemesis.

Joe called me at school the day the genetic results came back. "He's negative."

"Huh? Who's negative? Charlie? Put him in Time Out. Just make sure he doesn't get into the Costco bin of laundry detergent. Someone has been gittin' into that bin lately!"

"No, no Kel. Henry. Henry's negative. The test came back. He's just a carrier."

Just a carrier.

JUST A CARRIER.

JUST A CARRIER.

I would later tell my girlfriend of the rush of pins and needles that wooshed through my body. It was a feeling I had never known before. I couldn't explain it and I still can't. Maybe that's the same rush that a heroin addict experiences? It was overpowericng, yet brief. Gone too fast, I wanted it back.

It was I who had declined the amniocentesis. Life for us is good. The cure is on its way. I wouldn't terminate anyway, why risk it? If this baby were to have CF, we'd love him as much as we do Charlie and Lola, simple as that. I did not want to know. I remember leaning into my philosophy with Charlie and Lola; do everything I possibly can, EVERYTHING and then give the rest up to God to worry about. I couldn't second guess God, no, not this time. It was what it was, He would take care of things. I think it's the very first time in my life that I can say that I leaned into the word faith. I thought about that word more in the past 10 months than I have in my entire life. Funny how that works, isn't it?

And so the pregnancy progressed. For a while I was self conscious about being pregnant. I felt obligated to justify the pregnancy to Clinic and other CFers. This is afterall a very controversial topic in the CF community. I secretly wondered if eyeballs were rolling as I lumbered in and out of Clinic visits. But thankfully, by the time the last trimester rolled around I had just about forgotten that we still sported a 1:4 chance of having another member of club CF. It was filed away in the back of my mind; neatly set aside until further notice.

Now I'm a mom of three and it's a mad dash to keep all the balls up in the air. I've got two boys and a girl; two blonds and a red head, two tigers and a cub. I remind myself that each sibling will share a special bond with the other and I wonder, how will it look this bond? Will the boys be closer due to their gender? Will Lola and Henry be closer due to their age? Will Charlie and Lola be closer due to CF? I ponder these and other questions all throughout the course of a day. At a red light on the way to the grocery store, between numbers 8 and 9 of the weekly spelling quiz, while hanging laundry out on the line, these questions float around in my head. And of course, there are no answers.

Funny how that works, isn't it?

Penny for My Thoughts

2010-04-13T10:24:00.000-05:00

"Come on, Mama...what are YOU gonna wish for?"

A wink and a smile crossed my face, "Nuh-uhh. If I tell you Buddy, it won't come true."

Truth be known, I was a little too self conscious to share my thoughts on this question. That, and a four year old has not the time nor the patience to put up with listening to them. This was us a month ago standing in the middle of The Mall of America, our backs turned to a coin filled fountain; breeding ground of wishes, dreams and surely pseudomonas . Joe had given everybody one penny. One chance at making a wildest dream come true. Pennies were cast in hopes of that one wish granted; one lobbed haphazardly, one dropped clumsily, one thrown at rocket speed and mine...mine...mine was burning a hole in the palm of my hand as I strategized.

I can't really blame CF for ruining the moment. No, not this time. I'll take full responsibility for this one. Me and my big fat Type A personality. My parents nicknamed me Patty Perfect as an adolescent. Perfect? Ha! Far from it but the name stuck anyway, like a sticky wad of bubblegum to the bottom of a brand new shoe. Alas, in most arenas I have found this nickname to be a true fit and this moment was no exception. Think hard Patty, this wish has got to be PERFECT.

My strategy for this wish went against every grammatical fiber of my being and as a cool sweat began to bead my furrowed brow, I closed my eyes in deep concentration, willing my wish to come true.

I wish for the excellent health of my family as we live a long and peaceful life in our white washed casa amidst the rolling hills of Spanish sunflowers in the province of Andalucia where our children will recieve news that a cure for cystic fibrosis has been found before the reporters show up at our doorstep to confirm the news that we have indeed won the national lottery.

The beauty of a wish is that there are no rules - something I clearly took advantage of in that run-on sentence of a hope. Lottery, sunflowers and white washed casa aside, there was no way I could leave out good health. But CF? Damn it! How do those two dreadful letters find their way into EVERYTHING?!

Is a penny enough to grant all that AND a cure? Probably not. Maybe next time I'll pack away the Type A, keep it simple and just wish for happiness.

Random Thought

2010-04-12T14:12:00.000-05:00

The amount of dirt left behind in the ring around the bathtub is directly proportionate to the amount of fun had in one day.

ME.

2010-03-28T21:25:00.000-05:00

I like to think of myself as an open book; chock full of dog-eared pages and wrapped in a weathered cover. So you'd think that starting this blog would have come easy. Actually, it has been anything but. I liken it to jumping into the deep end of the ocean. I really didn't have a plan, know what direction it would ultimately take, or know if anyone would care to read it which is probably why I find it so easy to push it aside 'til the next week, the next month, or the next full moon. So for those of you still reading, here's a little fodder about Yours Truly. I'm actually cheating by posting this since I wrote it quite a while ago but it's me 100% cut and dry when my brain takes a vacation from cystic fibrosis.

25 Random Things about Yours Truly

1. I still think cell phones are stupid. Who is really THAT important that they need to be on call 24/7. A cardiothoracic surgeon? Okay. Manager of a nuclear power plant? Fine. The other 98% of the population? I don't think so.

2. If I were 20 pounds thinner and had the balls, I'd shave my head like Sinead O'connor. I've come to terms with never sporting long, wavy tresses like Cindy Crawford or Drew Barrymore. The only thing holding me back would be the guffaws from friends and family as they wondered aloud if I was undergoing chemotherapy.

3. I have not slept 8 hours uninteruppted in nearly 5 years. This may be why I sometimes fantasize about throwing a brick at Joe's face when he complains of being "Soooooooo tired."

4. I currently have four different sizes of clothing in my closet. They are, in order from smallest to largest, affectionately referred to as: "Back in the day, " "Ooooh, maybe that second helping wasn't such a good idea afterall," "Elastic waistband: friend or foe?" and "It's official, my ass is huge."

5. Before I die, I would like to have written and published a book.

6. Had it not been for Kat and Annie Loo, I would have QUIT the sorority. Erh...I mean "deactivated."

7. I take my cream with a touch of coffee and a snippet of sugar. Yes, creamer overload. As I remind Joe, who at this stage of the game needs no reminding, "Make it the same (previous) color as the kitchen walls - a cross between mocha and taupe." Whadda guy!

8. I have singlehandedly (and unintentionally) taught my 3 year old every naughty word/expression that he knows. The other day he confessed that he "was REALLY pissed off." This from a 3 year old because he couldn't finagle the play button on the remote control. I'm such a failure.

9. I regularly "discuss" (aka. argue) with radio talk show hosts as I drive around town. Though I'd never call in to make my point heard to the listening audience, I feel quite confident that my points are valid nonetheless. I can only hope that other drivers think I'm using my "hands-free" device since I do this while driving alone.

10. If it were covered by my insurance I'd voluntarily have my breasts surgically removed. As far as I'm concerned an A cup would be too big.

11. Hawaii is overrated. I think I'd rather go to the Badlands than back to Hawaii.

12. I'm going to have more kids. Ideally, I'd like 4 but wouldn't object to an accidental 5th.

13. I've had the same earrings in for over a year - minus the hospital stays of course.

14. I brush my teeth in the shower. Always a multitasker, I realize that this is taking it to the next level.

15. I voted for George Bush. Twice. I'm hoping that the last election will redeem me. Don't let me down, Barack.

16. Lately I'm freaking out. I mean REALLY freaking out about being middle aged. You know, 36 is more than half way to 70. Holy crap!

17. I still solve 7+4, 7+5, and 8+4 equations on my fingers. I don't know why, but those three combos never stuck. It would foreshadow quite accurately my future troubles when it came to math.

18. I've never, ever lied to my husband.

19. It stresses me out to talk to someone with a wandering eye. I never know which eyeball to focus on and oftentimes end up staring at their nose. I have to keep the conversation short because focussing for too long on someone's nose usually leads to a headache for me.

20. I've accepted the fact that my Spanish has indeed fossilized. I've become my father-in-law, speaking in a strange Indian tongue as I ask my son to "Comer el comida mucho rapido." It's all so depressing.

21. Once - and only once, while pregnant with Lola, I confronted and yelled at a woman who had parked in the "Expectant Mother" parking spot in front of the grocery store. In my defense, it was about a month before my due date and I was miserable. Plus, the bitch was skinny.

22. Had I not gone down the family path, I think I would have made a great secret agent for the CIA. I have to be honest though, the basic skills portion of the interview process may have gotten me booted from the selection pool (see response to #17).

23. If given the chance to take a free trip to the moon or another planet, I think I'd decline. Who wants to travel that far to someplace without maid service? No thanks.

24. I love to rock out to John Denver in the car. "Rocky Mountain Hiiiiiiiiiiiiigh, Colorado..." really gets my blood pumpin'.

25. If I could have one superpower, it would be the ability to stop/freeze time. I've always thought what great fun it would be to wander around undetected. I would totally take advantage of it too - posing people in awkward &/or embarrassing situations would be hilarious.