Meandering Along the Continuum of Maturity.

On the continuum of maturity, I’m somewhere in the middle of my two children.

This is a very strange place to be, and it leads to all sorts of awkward situations, along with starkly opposite parenting strategies.

The following conversation happened with my eleven-year-old about a pair of “distressed” blue jeans…

“WHY would you buy jeans that are already torn up?!”

“But they were on sale so that makes it not so bad that they already have holes in them, right??”

“No! I still think it’s silly. Why would anyone WANT those??”

“Because they look cool!!!”

“Not to me. They look like someone needs to go get them fixed.”

…Lest you didn’t figure it out on your own, Ali was the disapproving member of this conversation. And I still like my distressed jeans.

She’s at least ten miles ahead of me on the continuum of maturity. I honestly don’t know why she’s not running this family, as she’d definitely do a better job, and I’m not being sarcastic.

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She’s a smart kid. And mature. More mature than me, obviously. She believes in a job well done, getting up early to get one’s responsibilities completed, and not shirking on any possible expectations.

Which led to the following slightly judgmental question she asked me…

“Mom, why do you have people come clean our house? Shouldn’t we clean up our own messes?”

First of all, let me say that they only come every other week..it’s not like we have a maid or anything, helping Ali step into her petticoats and dashing her plates and glasses off to the sink.

But I had my reply at the ready this time, as this isn’t the first time that she has lightly insinuated my deficiencies in this particular area of domesticity.

“Well, we do clean up our messes – they just do the deep cleaning part. And I have cleaning people come because I am not just a mom. I am your teacher. I run a photography business. I write. And I work for Daddy’s company. So I don’t exactly have time to clean after all that. Now if you would like to go to school so I am not also your teacher….”

“Oh. No, that’s okay. That makes a lot of sense. I understand now.”

..Because even though she could probably handle all that and cleaning, she’s mature enough to understand that perhaps I am not quite as gifted.

And then there’s the other extreme of the continuum.

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When I told him I needed a photo of him for his (home)school admissions form, this is how he showed up.

On the last day of school (or, let’s be honest, three days after the last day of school when I finally got around to taking a picture), I handed the children these signs:

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Noah smiled under orders for the photo, but as soon as I finished taking it, he looked down, scowled, and said “What?? Why does this sign say this?? It should say First Grade was TERRIBLE!!!”

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(Ali knew what it said and still gave me a thumbs up. Because mature.)

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(And here’s the first day of school picture. Because we need the comparison documented.)

But back to first grade.

First grade was not terrible. It was actually pretty great. But Noah will never admit it.

He’ll never admit to any positive attributes of anything but himself, because he doesn’t just live on the opposite end of the maturity continuum, he basks in it. He slathers it all over his body and doesn’t rinse. He has a soaking tub full of immaturity and contraryness in which he lives.

So I have learned to trick, deal, and otherwise cope with his stubbornness and inability to see the joys in life.

Such as….when we go on a hike, he cannot, will not, walk. He must run. If I make him walk, he acts as if I am the most suffocating mother ever.

Yet when I mention running, or cross country, or anything related to running, he groans in agony, says how much he HATES running and how it’s SO exhausting and boring and he could NEVER EVER run.

So we only “hike.” And he runs ahead. And we don’t mention that he’s clearly a runner. And everyone is happy.

And then there’s the issue of reading.

“I don’t like reading. Reading is the worst. It’s SO boring.”

“Hmm. Boring, huh? I think it’s time you started reading a chapter book.”

“What?! No way!!”

“Ali, go get Noah your prettiest Geronimo Stilton Book.”

“THAT’S TOO LONG!!!!”

“Sorry kid, I’m the mom. You have to obey.”

“UGH.”

One day later…

“I hope our drive to lunch is long because I want to read one more chapter….”

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“I’m going to bring my book in just in case I want to finish my chapter…”

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“I’ll come lay in bed and read with you…I’m on page 80!”

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“…I need a flashlight and a book to read while I’m in my rocket to the moon.”

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“…Can I bring my book on our hike? I can hike and read at the same time.”

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…But don’t you dare mention how much he must enjoy reading.

Because he absolutely HATES it.

On Break

I’m taking a bit of a writing break to reboot my brain. Be back in a couple weeks…

Give me a T… Give Me an M… Give me an I!

Disclaimer: This post is graphic and most likely not for people of the male persuasion. Unless they’re the overly-curious type. But I recommend they close this window and run screaming like a boy.

Secondary Husband Disclaimer: I let Rachel blog about my vasectomy, and this post is sort of similar, but girly. Seriously, this blog is chock full of uncensored period talk, blood and everything. Its just biology, but YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.


If God had hired me as a creation consultant, (which He did not, for the record,) I would have highly recommended – insisted upon even – a Lady Switch.

Ladies can turn the switch on at, say, 25 years old, or whenever they’re ready to have children. And they can turn the switch off at, say, 36 years old when they’re totally DONE with producing progeny.

It’d be even better if the switch could be used more than once. Switch it on at 25, off at 27, turn it back on at 29, and off for good at 32. Let a woman suffer through an average of 20 periods in her life. I promise, God, Sir, 20 of those things is plenty enough to Keep The Curse Alive.

But maybe that’s asking too much.

Since God did not ask me for my opinions regarding such matters, we all must work with what we were given. And what we have been given is entirely too much of our life spent bleeding like an executed swine hung up to drain.

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My particular situation is made more perilous, as Dysautonomia makes periods worse, and periods make Dysautonomia worse. One of the main problems with my particular stupid illness is low blood volume, and any change to that can cause dehydration and sudden onset faintness (I had to offer up two vials of blood at the doctor the other day and felt light-headed and nauseous until I was able to speed to Chick-Fil-A and buy a biscuit.) Also, a side effect of Dysautonomia can be extreme periods – in all the ways.

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2017 began a downward spiral in my well-being due to every month being worse than the last, and not recovering from last month before this month arrived. It was getting dire. I was spending 1-2 days in bed a month. And everything was suffering because of it.

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A couple of years ago, my doctor had offered to give me an ablation. At the time, though, he gave a pretty awful sales pitch for it. “It only works about 90% of the time, and even for those it does work for, it may not be complete.”

I turned him down. Since then, ablations have become The Thing, and many of my friends have partaken, followed by glowing reports of the easy procedure and its magical results.

So after yet another crushingly awful month, I called and made an appointment. I chided my Gynecologist for being such a horrid salesman the first go ‘round, and signed up right away to give this life-changing activity a try.

So. What is an ablation?

Well, in my gynecologist’s literary description, it’s the process of “turning your garden into a desert.”

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In more technical terms, they stick a magic wand up there, and the wand spits out a mesh net. The net expands to the size of your uterus, then “emits a radio frequency”, which is code for “it burns the freakin’ house down.” Or at least it toasts the inside of the house into a nice char-broil.

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The procedure, which I had at the beginning of October, seemed to go well.

The recovery room was a bit dicey, because my blood pressure dropped out and, according to the squealing nurses, I was turning green, whatever that means. And because of my unusual color, they wouldn’t give me any pain meds.

Pretty sure that was discriminatory.

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But after I shed my green patina and they drugged me up, I was fine, and had zero pain once I got home. I was rewarded with a day to lie around the house and read while Chris carefully watched over me, and then immediately got back to normal life.

However.

This supposedly blessed procedure that promised to be the simple access to The Lady Switch that I so desired…turned out to have opposite-worked.

Now, instead of just having bad periods, I was bleeding every day AND continuing to have bad periods.

For the first couple weeks, I chalked it up to recovery.

At my two week post-op visit, my doctor, upon sticking his telescope up into things, proclaimed excitedly “I see the end of your bleeding!!”

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He assured me things were almost done, that yes I’d bled longer than most (you’re only supposed to bleed for a couple days), but he definitely saw the light at the end of the tunnel.

(Wait what?? There’s not supposed to be a light up there!! Did you leave something behind, doc?)

Then things really ramped up.

Whatever light he’d seen up there most definitely got drowned out. My uterus was now eternally going to be a Stephen King sewer system in which Pennywise was inhabiting and killing his victims inside it. There was no other reasonable explanation.

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What followed was me calling in,
The nurse checking with my doctor,
Then reporting back that he said “You need to go on the birth control pill.”,
Me taking a deep breath and using that overly-calm voice to let the nurse know that I had surgery to avoid such torture and WOULD NOT be doing any such thing,

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The nurse quickly finding me an appointment,

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The doctor examining me,

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And surmising “This is super unusual and I have absolutely no idea why you’re bleeding, but it could be one of these two things, so let’s take both these pills here and see if one of ‘em will plug the leak.”

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Shockingly, neither worked.

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After 60 days of my Lady Switch being completely jammed, my doctor announced that it was time to move to plan C: Goodbye, Uterus.

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After all she’s put me through lately, I know it seems like it should be more of one of these goodbyes,

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But we also created humans together. So I won’t deny a bit of sentimental attachment.

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I never wanted to have a Hysterectomy. I’ve been pretty against the idea for, like, forever. I’ve let go of a lot of body parts (a foot bone, a gall bladder, both tonsils, and two parasites now known as children), and was open to the idea of dismissing my appendix if it ever went rogue.

But my uterus – I really planned on us going out together.

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But after three days of being confined to bed due to the havoc my not-so-Cuterus was playing on my Dysautonomia, I was finally ready to break up the band. And resign myself to being a hollow shell of a human with nothing left but a lonely appendix.

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And so my doctor explained to me what would go down.

He would enter my body through my belly button (I guess my Dad was right after all – belly buttons do unbutton if you’re not careful,)

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(But my Dad’s horror stories about what would happen if you unbuttoned your belly button pale in comparison to reality…)

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Because he (the doctor, not Dad) would then use a very special tool with a very special name – A Morcellator – to grind up my uterus into hamburger steak,

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To make it easily removable through aforementioned belly button.

…Which brings me to wonder: does ground Uterus fry up as well as Placenta? And would you use ketchup or ranch to bring out its natural flavorings? Also, is mine a tastier variety since it’s no longer utero sashimi, but a nice medium-rare, compliments of my prior ablation?

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After removing all my newly formed uterine morsels, he promised that I would be a new woman, finally healed of all that ails me.

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And so I’ll be taking part in this groundbreaking Uterine Rave on Thursday. And it’s guaranteed to be the trendiest way to spend Early December.

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There will be a night in the hospital, two weeks of recovery, Uterus Sloppy Joes for everyone, and then I will hopefully never feel anything in my Uterus ever, ever again.

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Now Accepting: Book, Netflix, and Amazon Prime recommendations, Sarcastic wishes of “Merry Christmas to YOU!”, gifs and Memes, chocolate, and tacos.

No Longer Accepting: Secondhand Hysterectomy Horror Stories, Firsthand Hysterectomy Horror Stories, preventative Essential Oil recommendations, and raw ground beef anonymously mailed to my doorstep.