To Infinitive and Beyond!

There are many quirks that come with Zane’s sensory processing disorder that are quite charming. For example, he gives me directions to wherever we’re going (he always has a preference), I never have to wonder what to get him for a gift (trains), and he has an urgent need to have a blanket covering his pillow at night so he doesn’t “stick”.

You see the charm here, right? These idiosyncrasies are easy to accommodate, and they make him feel secure – we all win. So while I’ve appreciated all the help he’s gotten from occupational therapy, I’ve also secretly hoped that he doesn’t lose these loveable little foibles that make him uniquely him.

But as his auditory processing improves with occupational therapy, he’s talking more and more – which is actually giving us a whole new set of things to feel delighted by. Recently, it’s like we’ve had a little person who doesn’t speak English as his first language living with us. More to the point, the child is in love with infinitives.

My favorite so far:

Mama, I like this music. It makes me feel like to dance.

So dance, my sweet boy, dance. Whenever you feel like to dance, you go right ahead.

In Which I Attempt to Document this Gestation

The other day SRH and I were at a bookstore – because we have the hottest date nights in town – and I happened to pick up a pregnancy journal.

You know, a pregnancy journal. One of those books you write in daily/weekly/monthly to memorialize all those special moments of your coming child’s gestation. If you have only one child – or are pregnant with your first – you totally know to what I’m referring. You may even have smiled when I brought it up.

If you have more than one child – or are on your second + pregnancy – I’ll give you a minute to remember. Ah yes, there it is - the pregnancy journal.

So, for about 2 seconds in the book store I contemplated getting the journal. This would be a nice way to commemorate this pregnancy, I thought. You did one for Zane, I continued. This baby deserves to be documented in the same way.

And then I realized that I’d have to actually start in the middle of the journal as I am now 22 weeks pregnant – over half way there - and I haven’t written a thing down. And that seemed a bit half-assed, even for me.

So I thought, Heeeeeeeey…you have a blog. Why not write in that and call it square?

So here it is. The first entry of perhaps the worst pregnancy journal ever. But I care about this baby that’s coming, dammit. And I’m going to write 3-4 entries before June to prove it.

Entry #1 –What’s Different With This Pregnancy?

When people tell me I’m cute/little/barely showing, I simply say “thank you”. Last time I was pregnant, I vehemently tried to disabuse everyone of this notion. I was, dare I say, a wee bit offended by their inability to see that I was a great big sow of a woman who was carrying a ginormous child.

This time, I don’t even mention that I have gained 20+ pounds and that I’m measuring large. Nope, no siree. I simply thank them and pretend that I am cute/little/ barely showing – even though I feel like my major task of every morning is stuffing five basketballs into maternity clothes. (Two up top, one in front, and two bouncing along behind me).

I’m not reading any pregnancy books. Last time I had a whole slew of them – with this one being my favorite. I obsessed over what was happening for the baby during a particular week. I looked forward to the week changing over so I could read about what was going to happen in the upcoming week. I knew what symptoms I should be having, what foods I shouldn’t eat, and when I would get certain tests.

Yesterday, I went to the library and visited to the pregnancy/childbirth section – mostly because I felt like I should. And I could not for the life of me muster up the interest to even check one single book out. I was all, Meh…I probably won’t read this anyway. Baby Girl and I seem to be getting along just fine. Why would I want to read about it?

So, instead I walked out with some porn. Um, excuse me, erotica. Because second trimester sex is a really wonderful gift, friends. Thank goodness that hasn’t changed.

Now…I have a hard time remembering where exactly I am in the pregnancy. Is this week 22 or 23? Is my due date June 18 or 21^st? When does this second trimester end? Crap. I’m totally unprepared here.

Fear of miscarriage. Having lost a pregnancy last summer and being plagued by bleeding and cramping during the first trimester of this pregnancy, I have been aware of the fragile-ness of gestation in a way that I never was with Zane. But that’s a downer, and I’ll post more about it another time. (That time being when I’m totally into killing your buzz.)

On the other hand…now that I finally believe that we’re going to have a baby at the end of all this…

I am looking forward to meeting this little one in a way that I never did with Zane. It’s true. I wondered what Zane would be like. I fantasized about having a child, but my anticipation was always clouded with the anxiety about how I would be as a mother. Can I do this? I wondered.

This time, though, I know I can do this. SRH and I are actually quite decent parents, and while I can’t imagine what adding another child into our household mix will do exactly, I feel quite certain that we will manage it.

Now, it’s just all about meeting her. Seeing her for the first time, touching her little baby skin, smelling her soft breath, and getting to love who she will be.

Pretty awesome stuff, that.

Slightly less awesome will be the sleepless nights, the dirty diapers, and the sore, cracked bleeding nipples. But I’m up for it, and it’s definitely worth at least trying to keep a journal for.

Drumroll Please

Let's go through the signs and symptoms, shall we?

I'm craving sweets...

Baby's heartrate was above 140...

I have some pregnancy-related acne...

I didn't have any morning sickness...

I'm not excessively hairy with this pregnancy...

I am "carrying high" - look like I swallowed a basketball...

SRH has gained weight right along with me...

I took 8 cranberry supplements and chugged Lydia Pinkham's tonic the week before I ovulated...

The needle/wedding ring swung in large circles over my tummy...

And, of course, the drano didn't bubble when I mixed it with my urine...

...It must be a girl!
(and here I thought I needed an ultrasound to confirm the news)

Place Your Bets*

Tomorrow is the day of days...the "tour of the baby" ultrasound.

So what do we think, friends? Boy or girl?

*And I expect every person who still reads this blog (yes, both of you) to share your guesses.

We Interrupt this Bloggy Vacation…

...to say that today I quit my job. And not like quitting my job last June – that time when I walked into my boss’ office and she said, “Oh my god. Are you quitting? Don’t quit. Just don’t quit. Okay. We can work something out, just don’t quit without trying to work something out.” And I was all, “Okay.”

Nope. Not like that at all.

Today, after months of being overwhelmed and exhausted and feeling pulled between my day job and this consulting stuff that seems to be going somewhere, I decided to quit.

Well actually, it wasn’t today that I decided to quit. I’ve been percolating on it for a while and told myself about 6 weeks ago that if I got one more consulting gig, I was going to quit my job.

Then about 4 days later, I got another gig.

And then 3 days after that, I got another one.

But was I convinced? Oh no. For you see, I am from the School of the Formerly Poor, where each lesson ends with the phrase - Do not ever leave a regular paying job.

So I hemmed and I hawed (is this how you spell that?)…and I dithered and I dathered (which I’m quite sure is not how you spell that)…and I talked it over ad nauseum with SRH.

And after much dismay and deliberation, I decided to go for it.

Today.

Today I quit my job.

And if it was the worst decision of my life and puts my family in the poorhouse and my children’s lives in jeopardy, I can always get another job, right?

The Confidant

As a person who is intrinsically nosy (i.e. why I became a therapist), I have always consoled myself with the fact that while I am overly inquisitive about what’s going on in other people’s lives, I am also intensely interested in figuring out my own dynamics as well. So when my friend Karen, put this personality test link up on her blog, I couldn’t resist. I had to know more about myself.

Here I am:

Turns out, I’m an INFJ – an apparently rare personality type. I knew it! I knew it! Not only am I one of only four people in the United States who hates cheese, but I am also a characterological anomaly. I’m like the unicorn in the make believe land of personality - except I exist.

And I am, apparently, a little strange.

No matter. I was intrigued by some of the insights about my personality that seemed right on target. For example:

Because the INFJ has such strong intuitive capabilities, they trust their own instincts above all else. This may result in an INFJ stubborness and tendency to ignore other people's opinions. They believe that they're right.

Yeah, you got a problem with that?

INFJs are deeply concerned about their relations with individuals as well as the state of humanity at large. They are, in fact, sometimes mistaken for extroverts because they appear so outgoing and are so genuinely interested in people…On the contrary, INFJs are true introverts…

It’s like looking in a mirror, people, reading this stuff.

INFJs are highly intuitive, empathetic and dedicated listeners. These traits tend to act as a "tell me what's wrong" sign on their forehead…

This trait makes people at the grocery store tell me all about their troubled marriages, their son’s criminal behavior, their daughter’s recent abortion, and their aunt’s third nipple.

(As an aside, I have started wearing my iPod whenever I go out alone so that folks don’t think they should talk to me.)

But here’s the quote that stopped me in my tracks:

At intervals INFJs will suddenly withdraw into themselves, sometimes shutting out even their intimates. This apparent paradox is a necessary escape valve for them, providing both time to rebuild their depleted resources and a filter to prevent the emotional overload to which they are so susceptible as inherent "givers." As a pattern of behavior, it is perhaps the most confusing aspect of the enigmatic INFJ character to outsiders, and hence the most often misunderstood…

I sent this quote to BFF Zingerzapper, and she cracked up. To her, this is such a part of my character that it doesn’t even bear discussion.

And so…and here you other intuitive types might guess where this is going…I’m taking a bit of a bloggy break.

Not a long one. Just for a few weeks. I’m feeling a need to “withdraw into myself” and replenish.

As proof of my good faith, I leave you with a few blog post ideas that have been rattling around in my head:

• Good Lessons from a Bad Boyfriend
• Yoga Toes
• Occupational Therapy is Magic
• On Guilt
• I Quit this Job…So Why Am I Still Working Here?
• Round Two with the Critical Inner Voice

See, I’ll have to write these up. So don’t fret, ma petite pumpkins, I’ll be back…in a while…it’s just part of my personality.

What Have We Done?

Zane turned four last week - and yes, I will write the requisite blog entry full of love and devotion to my little boy, but just not today. (Really, I will. Please see last year's love letter as proof of my commitment to waxing eloquent about the wonder that is my little boy.)

Anyway, Zane got lots of cool stuff for his special day, and one of his favorite gifts is a kid's digital camera. He's gone completely nuts for the thing. He'll take 60 pictures in 10 seconds flat, ask us to upload them onto the computer, and then take 60 more - all before breakfast!

So what's a family with 800 pictures taken by a four year old to do? Well, we make him his own photo blog, of course.

A sample of what you'll see if you mosey over to Zane's blog:

My Birthday Party

This is my mama - she truly is this goofy. Here's proof that I'm not making it up - the pictures show the real story.

This is my papa - he's particularly tall, so the view will often be of his stubbly chin.

Here's me. As you may have guessed, I didn't take this particular photo. Papa took it, but I think it beautifully captures the birthday goodness which was going on. Check out my hat.

So yeah, we totally created a photo blog for Zane. We couldn't help ourselves - the pictures are hilarious, and we are so enamored of our child that we thought we'd claim a corner of the blogosphere for him. In case you missed it, here's the link to Little Man's Got a Camera.

Enjoy!

I Get By With A Little Help...

Last week, I went out with a group of new women friends after work, and a fine time was had by all. Such a fine time that most of the women said things like, “This was great! We have to do this again.” And “Oh my goodness, I had so much fun. We should do this regularly!”

I, on the other hand, was all, “Eh. It was fine. I suppose I’d do it again.”

At first I chalked this up to my raging anti-social tendencies, but when I thought about it a bit longer, I realized that it was actually my extreme good fortune of having a regular group of women friends to hang out with that made me so blasé about this new gathering.

You see, about once a month for the past five years (give or take), I have had a regularly scheduled Girls Night Out with three fabulous women – hereafter referred to as the GNO group.

During that time, each one of the GNO group has had babies, some of us more than one. We’ve all switched jobs (or careers), and two of us are raising children with food allergies and asthma. One of us has gotten married, and the rest of us were there to cheer her on. One of us announced that she was moving across the country, but somehow has never managed to leave us. Another one of us developed cancer. Two of us actively resist letting others support us, but the other two remain steadfast in their support.

All of us, though, have come to rely on our monthly time together as a way to get some sanity in the midst of child-rearing chaos and life’s ridiculousness.

================================================

Sometimes you get the friends you want, not the friends you deserve.

For example:

This weekend, two of the GNO group threw a joint birthday party for Zane and another group member’s child.

Why? Because they could tell that I was struggling under the weight of trying to get everything done with work and home and health stuff.

Since Zane gets a bit overwhelmed in larger gatherings, SRH and I celebrate his birthday with smaller play dates – usually about four of them. Which is wonderful and special and intimate and all, but let’s be clear it also means that there are four “birthday play dates” to plan, four cakes to make, four sets of schedules to maneuver, and about a week long of birthday-fueled adrenaline from Zane.

It’s exhausting and overwhelming – and now that I think about it, completely a middle-class angst thing. Whatever.

So, I was trying to pull together a dual birthday party for Zane and the other lovely child, and it just wasn’t coming together for me.

Then, I got an email from another member of the GNO group that said, “Hey, why don’t I just throw the party? I’d love to do it for you.”

I dramatically responded with, “Yes! Yes! A thousand times yes!”

And so, we showed up this weekend to a completely planned birthday party with games, arts and crafts, food, and favors. AND I DIDN’T HAVE TO PLAN ONE THING.

(Okay, I did have to make the cake, but when you have a child who is allergic to dairy, egg, peanuts, and tree nuts, that’s just a given.)

It was wonderful. Zane had a great time, and we got to celebrate his birthday without all the typical freaking out that birthday party having typically entails.

My friends take amazing care of me – when I let them.

===============================================

So then I came home and started reading a very popular book, and my eye caught the following passage:

He wanted to tell them what that meant to him, but he simply could not find words important enough.

===============================================

Thank you, my friends.

Good Fences Make Good Neighbors?

I think the neighbor lady across the street is mad at me.

You might ask, Is this the same neighbor with whom you’ve had very few conversations? The one that you merely exchange pleasantries with and then move on? The one who you used to suspect might be interested in a friendship – you do both have little boys, after all – but after one flat play date, you both thought better of it?

Yes, one and the same.

And it wasn’t the failed play date that did it. We have had conversations since then, and they have been fine. At least I think they were fine…

For though I used to be a practicing psychotherapist (one who, of necessity, picks up on the subtleties and nuances of other’s behavior), I have been known to be a bit focused when going about my business, so I may not have noticed if things weren’t okay.

After all usually when we say hello, I’m heading to work trying to wrangle a preschooler who has a penchant for making me late or I'm heading out for an evening walk - my precious alone time. Add to this that I loathe chit chat with the same fiery hatred that I typically reserve for asymmetrical tank tops, and you may have a recipe for my missing some signals here.

What I can clearly tell you is that recently while leaving for the aforementioned walk, this neighbor has been shooting daggers at me with her eyes – if she deems to look at me, that is. She has also started turning away just as I would come into her field of view, pretending that she doesn’t see me. And then a few days ago, she actually spoke behind her hand to two other neighbor ladies as I walked by.

And my issue is not that I feel bothered by this. Rather my angst is that I feel like I should be bothered by it. If she’s angry at me, then I must have done something (albeit unintentionally) to make her feel slighted or hurt.

And while I act all bad-ass on this blog, I really don’t want to be the type of person who hurts and slights others willy-nilly. Really, it’s not my style. I prefer distant cordiality in most circumstances, but – if pushed – I will attend to the emotional needs of those outside my established circle of family and friends.

So I think I should at least try to make some attempt to talk to her in an effort to re-establish friendly neighbor relations, but – and here’s the crux of the matter - I don’t really feel like it.

We don’t have much in common. Our kids don’t necessarily play well together (mostly because her child tends to hit and kick), and I’m not necessarily interested in making new friends who live across the street and therefore can stop by anytime. Also, I don’t feel like I have the excess energy required to placate someone who’s being kind of stupid about a slight that I don’t even remember.

So I’m torn between acting the part of a decent neighbor (requiring effort on my part) and my natural inclination to ignore her until she eventually moves away (relatively less effort on my part).

It’s really a battle between the person I want to be (kind and neighborly) and the person I am (emotionally unavailable and lazy).

What’s a girl to do?

Because Mothering is Glamourous

While at our local crossing gate watching trains go by, Zane hands me a very small, round, flat object. (think a piece of confetti)

Zane: Mama, is this pink?

Me: Yeah, it’s kind of pink, and it’s also kind of red.

Zane: It’s pink and red?

Me: Pink and red and a little bit brown, too, isn’t it?

Zane: Pink and red and brown. (smiles with satisfaction)

Me: Yep. What is it, buddy? Where did you get it?

Zane: My nose.

Sunday Evening Lunacy

I consider myself a relatively smart person. I mean I’m no Stephen Hawkings, but I was valedictorian of my high school class. And if that doesn’t convince you of my intellect (perhaps because you know I went to high school in southern Ohio with a student body of less than 400 people), than you should also know that I was a National Merit Scholar.

And I can almost hear you thinking, “Well maybe she’s book smart, but does she have any common sense?”

So I’ve heard this one a lot – the one where someone is called book smart as if it is derogatory with common sense becoming the gold standard of intelligence. Although to be truthful, I’ve never heard it before in reference to me. I assume that this is because to the casual blog reader observer, I appear to be neither book smart nor particularly full of common sense.

Whatever. In my life, my mother is the Queen of Common Sense. I guess growing up in a poor Irish farming family with an alcoholic father and bitter, bitter mother is the recipe for developing common sense sovereignty. I’m not quite sure if that’s the case, but I do know that the woman knows a no-nonsense answer to every quandary.

At least three times a week, SRH and I have the following discussion:

Me: I don’t know…what do you think?

SRH: (Shrugs) I don’t know…what do you think?

Me: Maybe I should call my mom?

SRH: Yeah.

Anyway, I may not have the common sense of my mother, but I’ve never considered myself a slouch in that department.

So explain to me how, this very evening - when I was washing about 250 plastic balls in bleach water to fill up Zane’s new ball pit, which incidentally, the OT is thrilled for him to have because, you know, it provides deep pressure which is helpful for both his tactile and proprioceptive systems. And anyway, I had to clean the balls in bleach water because my dear friend, M, got them off Craigslist for mere pennies, but they were filthy because their previous ball pit home was located out of doors - I had a huge breakdown of sound judgment.

Why, I ask you, would I …

…choose to do said bleach water washing in my new cute lime green top…

…while standing on the irreplaceable Scottish wool blanket that SRH and I bought in London on our 5^th anniversary trip…

…and upon realizing the idiocy of this behavior by noticing white spots on the aforementioned top and blanket, I would STILL run my fingers through my hair before washing my hands.

I’m sure that tomorrow morning, I’ll have unflattering orange highlights on both sides of my head. Because that’s what happens to Black hair when it’s bleached, right? It becomes an unwieldy, nappy burnt orange? It doesn’t become blonde does it?

Because if you’ve known me for more than 5 minutes, you are aware that I think that Black people with blonde hair are an abomination. Something nature never intended. (Even Beyonce, beautiful woman that she is, struggles as a true blonde.) And I feel fairly certain that the superstar doesn’t get her ‘do by running bleachy fingers through uncombed hair while trying to put together a toy for their child at 9pm at night after a long, exhausting weekend of play dates, cleaning house, and brunch making.

So, um, yeah, I think we’re clear on the verdict here: I may be a little book smart, but not so much with the common sense.

"Meme" is the word

Both Zany Mama and I were tagged by people to do this here meme. The “8 Things” meme has been flying around the web like wildfire. Mommy Blogs, Quilting Blogs, FanFic Blogs, Cigar Blogs, PoliSci Blogs, Comic Book Blogs, and even Spammish Marketing Blogs have all been infected with this meme. Zany Mothering and Under Construction were sadly not immune. But Wifey and I have decided to buck tradition and do things our own way, damnit! So we decided to post 8 things about each other on each other’s respective blogs. So, without further ado, 8 things about my wife.

Here are the previous rules:

Here are the rules:
-list 8 facts/habits about yourself My Partner
-post the rules at the beginning before those facts/habits are listed

-tag 8 people and post their names, go to their blogs and leave them a comment, letting them know that they have been tagged and ask them to read your blog.

Things About Me:my partner:

Thing the first: Zany Mama hates listening to commentators during sporting events, even though she loves watching the human interest stuff that obscures the Olympics. Hey, color commentary is just that “human interest” crap without the extra pictures and schmaltzy music.

Thing the second: Occasionally she loses all sense of impulse control. This typically happens around me and annoying behaviors. For example she once gave me a “wet-willy” and was surprised that she actually had done it (so she says…).

“I… I… couldn’t stop myself…” Yeah, sure

Thing the third: When she gets seriously stressed/scared she sometimes finds herself laughing hysterically. In many ways it makes her look a bit insane. Many ways…

Thing the fourth: Zany Mama hates replacing the toilet paper roll. I know that is usually a guy thing, but it is true.

Thing the fifth: Wifey loves the movie, “The Clash of the Titans.” This is something that has been mentioned previously on my blog via one of my “20 Questions Tuesday” posts, but most of you folk don’t read my drivel and especially don’t read my archives. ---- Just between you and me, I don’t blame you. I ramble and prattle too much for my own good.---- Sure, sure, some of you know this stuff but most people don’t.

**Author’s Note: Holy Shnikies, this meme is hard!**

Thing the sixth: She will stay in bed for hours after she realizes that she needs to pee. The bathroom is 20 steps away from the bed.

Thing the seventh: She prefers to sleep naked. I prefer her to sleep naked as well. (Who wouldn't?)

Thing the eighth: Zany Mama hates the sound of Legos. Not the sounds of Lagos, but that is only because she has not experienced the sounds of Lagos.

Thanks for reading

& I tag no one.... ever. That's just how I roll.

--SRH

So,This is Cool

At my dinner table this evening were folks from North Carolina, Bolivia, Australia, South Africa, and Hungary.

We talked about climate change and possible transformative action around the issue.

I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.

Did I mention that they serve dessert every night in heaven?

Hello, eh!

So, I’m out of the country right now.

(I’m in Nova Scotia, so I’m really barely out of the country, but it felt like a dramatic way to begin a post.)

Anyway, I’m trying something new – I’m going to blog about work a bit.

I usually don’t blog about work because, well, that’s not what we’re all here for. For me, blogging is actually a bit of an escape from work, but since I’m going to be gone until Saturday and I have no idea what’s happening at my house (what you don’t know, can’t burn down the house, right?), I thought I might just give a few quick updates this week.

I am here - at a conference with an incredible group of people talking about amazing topics that are really important. (ah, hyperbole!) So it was starting to feel a bit “inauthentic” not to talk about this really cool thing happening in my life. Especially since I typically bore you with health crises, rants about occupational therapy, and my love of steak.

So, I do find it difficult to articulate what occurs for me when I go to these types of gatherings – it’s lots of deep conversations and connecting to people that I wouldn’t meet in any other context. And there’s lots of me going, “OMG – I can’t believe I’m here! Okay, okay, play it cool Dr. J. You can run with the big dogs. Anyway, they like you, you like them. Just don’t tell them about your encyclopedic knowledge of all things celebrity, and it will be all good.”

In trying to figure out what to write about my experience here so far, I thought I’d just give you a couple of quotes from the conference that are sticking with me from today:

“What if we created a world that was biased toward wisdom and compassion?”

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Everywhere I look, there is another of my favorite people.”

Okay, the last quote was from me, but it’s true. I’m like a kid in a candy store – and I’m totally on a starburst high!

I think I’ll try to post a few times from here – we’ll see how this blogging about work goes. I’m struggling to find a witticism or self-deprecation in this whole experience, but I’m sure I’ll get there.

Stay tuned.

A Conversation and a Story

Dear blog reader, we have been having an ongoing conversation today, you and I. It goes something like this:

You: Hey, Zany Mama.

Me: Hmm?

You: Why don’t you give us an update?

Me: You can call me Tuesday, you know.

You: Indeed, it is Tuesday. Anyway, why don’t you give us an update?

Me: An update on what?

You: Don’t be deliberately obtuse, lady. You haven’t mentioned Keith Richards for approximately 3.5 posts now. That’s shady. What’s up?

Me: Oh Keith Richards! (hits forehead dramatically)

You: So…

Me: Okay, I’ll tell you a story, but don’t interrupt me…

There once was a beautiful young maiden who developed a terrible pain in her belly after eating prime rib for 4 days straight. Everyone in the kingdom thought it would pass once she resumed her normal repast of steamed chicken and vegetables (ha!), but, alas, it didn’t get better.

The beautiful lady’s discomfort caused much pain and strife in her kingdom. It caused famine and widespread ill-humor. Thin broth and melba toast filled the damsel’s days, and grey clouds hovered over her castle.

With near-legendary patience, the gentlewoman went through many, many medical tests until it was discovered that in her lithe mid-section there was a heinous liver tumor. A big, fire-breathing, dragon-like liver tumor.

Upon the advice of her friends, she named the tumor Keith Richards.

Once it was determined what caused her malady, the doctors told the lady that she must co-exist with Keith Richards for several months in an effort to make him shrink.

You know those Keith Richard types, the doctors said, if you simply do not feed them drugs (or birth control pills) and you limit their adult activities (leading to pregnancy), eventually they will get bored and flee your delicate system.

Although our heroine wasn’t sure about the “wait it out and it will shrink method”, she dutifully followed her doctor’s orders for several months. And finally, this week she took her carriage to the doctor’s office to hear the results of the barbaric MRI she’d been subjected to the week before.

While there, the doctor gave her grave news indeed: the tumor was not shrinking. It was the exact same size as it had been before.

The pain was better, to be sure. But Keith Richards was still living the high life in her gut.

You: So are they gonna take it out?

Me: I believe I was clear that I am not tolerating interruptions. One more and Keith and I are leaving.

Ahem…so the lovely maiden was quite disheartened – especially when the doctor said that she could expect to have this tumor FOREVER and that there wasn’t much else to do at this point.

You: But wait. You aren’t supposed to get pregnant or be on birth control with this tumor, right? What are you supposed to do?

Me: Second warning, Chatty Cathy – that’s the last time you get to interrupt. This is painful enough without your completely relevant and reasonable questions.

You: But…

Me: Oh cripes, you’re ruining the story. Fine. We’ll skip to the ending.

So the maiden was referred to her "lady parts" doctor for further evaluation and treatment. The end.

You: But that kind of sucks doesn’t it? You just have to live with a liver tumor which may or may not flare up at any time?

Me: Yeah. But the “kind of good” news is that it appears that the tumor is not affected by hormones. So hopefully, I’ll be able to, you know, resume normal operations around here. But I’m sticking to my guns here…I said one more interruption, and I was leaving.

You: But I didn’t interrupt you. You said, The End. You were done - there was no interruption.

Me: Whatever. Good day, sir. I said, Good day!

(Harumphs out of the room with a hand on her upper right quadrant crooning softly to Keith Richards.)