It was a busy week.

I have things to report.  I have photos to post, which may or may not include David Beckham with his shirt off.  (Hint: his abs are even more spectacular in person.) (Even from 150 feet or so away.)

Right now, though, I have my tired eyes on.  Want to see them?

These are my tired eyes.

 They are much like my regular eyes, only now with Extra! Luggage!

So, yeah. Right now? Heading to bed. Hoping to less-tired the eyes. Also hoping to be able to form coherent sentences after a good night's sleep.  See you later, internets.

Bobbing Like A Fishing Lure

It's been a strange week.

Let me start this off by saying that from now on I'll be dropping the "Big Daddy" moniker and just going with "Trip".  That's his name, my husband.  Well, actually, it's still a nick name, but it's one he came by honestly.   And since this is going to be mostly about him, and since I'm tired and in an odd mood today, we'll just throw it out there.  

So Trip has a cyst. On his neck.  A BIG cyst that appeared overnight-ish a few weeks ago.

A large, unexplained growth on the neck is never a good thing, right?

Turns out it's a thyroglossal duct cyst.  That's not important to you.  What might be important to you (okay, it's important to me, so pretend to be interested!) is that he'll be having surgery next Tuesday to have it removed.

The surgery is called "The Sistrunk Procedure" and involves the removal of several bits and bobs from his neck, including part of the hyoid bone.  (I'd link it, but I'm lazy. Wikipedia any of the above and you'll find out more than you ever wanted to know, I assure you. I'm still scarred from the pictures.)

There's a very small chance that all of this is somehow related to cancer.  But since I have firmly, repeatedly reminded him that I have forbidden him to ever get cancer (It's in the marriage contract. Read the fine print.) well, then it's obviously not cancer.

I decided to name the cyst.   I call it "Cedric", which somehow that makes it seem less threatening. 

A few days after Cedric is removed, we'll get the lab results.  These will, obviously, confirm that Cedric is a benign, if incredibly rude and uninvited, visitor to my husband's body.  

I've been bobbing up and down this week.  One minute I'm above water, rushing around to collect the laundry and run a load of dishes and attempt to locate the vacuum cleaner.  The next moment I am sitting on the couch, staring at the family photo hanging on the wall and thinking about the worst that could happen.

I'm sure it's normal to worry in this situation, but I can't decide if trying NOT to worry is just making it worse.  Instead of a nice, even level of anxiety... I'm bouncing up and down like those little red and white bobbers at the end of a fishing line.

I'm not sure I want to know what it is that's biting on the hook.

Phobia #4328965342: Babysitters

I've been a mother now for just over 6 years. I know, right?! Stop that insanity. Only it's true, so it's not technically insane in the dictionary sense, but insane in the sense that I should not be allowed to be totally responsible for small humans.  

I was a damn fine babysitter, though, back in my day.

Funny enough, though, in all the time we've been parents, Big Daddy T and I have never really been ones to hire babysitters.  We've borrowed the odd services of family and swapped kid-watching duties with other parent friends. (You know: You take our kids Friday, we'll take yours Saturday, etc.)

It's not that I don't believe there are good babysitters, or that I'm afraid I'll come home to find the babysitter has slipped all the kids a rufee or bedded my husband or anything.  It's more that I'm terrified to leave anyone else the responsibility of these small humans because I don't trust that they will care about them as much as I do.

I recognize that this is patently ridiculous, as nobody else will EVER care about my kids as much as I do.  It's part of the mommy Job Description.  

So finally, when my neighbor/BFF, Sarah, suggested her babysitter might be worthy to be responsible for the temporary care of my 3 small, loud people, we decided to give it a go.

It was like tasting Ambrosia, y'all.

We went out. Alone.  Try #1 we took the baby with us to the movies, with disastrous results, but after that?  Try #2 we went to dinner at the new Wings Place in town, and then a live music show at a local bistro.  It was heaven. All 3 kids were in good hands, and we hadn't a care in the world.

This afternoon we celebrated our 7th anniversary a day early.  We left Courtney The Awesome with our 3 monkeys and headed out to see The Time Traveler's Wife.  Only, I suck and may have mentioned a time or two that my ADD prevents me from - you know -functioning like normal humans, so we MAY have ended up at the WRONG theater and been unable to see our movie.  Okay, so there's no may about it, we did just that, but then we ended up wandering around town and grabbing sangria and chips with guacamole at a hole-in-the-wall mexican place. Then we headed to a 250-year-old bar with a patio surrounded by old-growth trees, where we sat in a wooden swing hanging from one of the branches and sipped cold beers and talked about Life. And The Universe. And Everything.

Facing this fear has been entirely positive, and now I am left only with the regret that Courtney is headed back to college this week.  Which means I am now sans babysitter once again.  

This is what I imagine it was like for Val Kilmer's character in "At First Sight" when he got vision for the first time, but then lost it again.  And if you think I'm being melodramatic YOU DO NOT HAVE CHILDREN.

So facing this particular hurdle in my seemingly endless series of fears? It's been good.  Now who wants to come be my au pair? (I hope you're not adverse to My People doing a background check and taking a urine sample. You're totally okay with that, right?)

What can I say?  I'm a little protective.  It's a virtue. (Shut up, it totally is.)

How Much Ado Is Too Much Ado?

So how have YOU been, internet?

I know, I know. I got you all riled up about photos and adventures and a night out and blah, blah, blahgety-blah-blah, and then I leave you hanging.

Sorry about that.  What can I say? It's been a rough week.

Meeting up with bloggers is not something I expect to every thoroughly get used to.  I'm not good at cracking the code of social interaction when I'm "The New Kid".  When I was growing up, every two years (or less) brought a new move, and it usually took me a good year or two to find my groove and feel at home.  You know, just in time for another move.

When I was 14 we moved to California and finally stayed put for the next several years.  I even got to attend a single high school for all 4 years (something few of my siblings were able to do).  The only problem? Being a mormon in California was probably the worse possible place to be for a kid like me.  I was gangly, just coming into my height, totally unaware of my body or my appearance.  I had been told I was chubby my entire life, and I simply accepted it.  

When we arrived in California, I was actually a trim 135 pounds on a 5' 6" frame.  I felt fat.  I had a weird accent from living all over the place, my clothes were hopelessly out of style, and I hadn't the first clue how to put myself together or fit in with the kids around me who seemed just effortlessly cool.

By my junior year of high school I was 220 pounds on a 5' 8" frame.  I had given up on clothes, and my bleach-blonde hair had gone through various stages of being dyed brown by my sister (I spent half my sophomore year being questioned about the odd green shade, what with brown dye over bleached hair turning a lovely shade of puce-brown), and finally dyed a little-mermaid red to cover it.  I ate lunch at my locker, hunched over my dog-eared copy of Nicholas and Alexandra, rather than put myself through the cringe-inducing spectacle of trying to make conversation with the kids from my church group at "their spot" on the back lawn.  

By my senior year I had tried every possible way to lose the extra weight, and finally settled on running and walking as much as my body would tolerate.  I slimmed down to a healthy 140 and let my natural hair color grow in.  I still hadn't the foggiest idea about clothes or makeup or hair products, but I had found a group of friends who seemed to "get" me.... or at least to accept me as I was.  It took 4 years, but I finally felt at home.

Then I graduated and headed for Provo, Utah and BYU.  It was the final straw, and the beginning of everything else.  After 18 months, I moved to the East Coast and started again for what felt like the last time.  Maybe because it was the last time I would have to "reinvent" myself; or maybe because it was the first time I didn't have to, and could just discover who I was.

All of that backstory (this new honesty, it stings a little sometimes) is to say that so much of that feeling of "other-ness" rears up again when I put myself somewhere new.  I struggle to read the social cues, to pick up on the dynamic of the group.  The major thing that has changed is that I no longer base my sense of self-worth on whether or not I fit in.  But I still try to connect, and I hope that never changes.  Maybe I'll get better at this with practice.

So I made the 90-minute drive to Baltimore, stopping along the way to meet up with the lovely Miss Laurie, who was kind enough to take me under her wing to get me into the city.  

Once we arrived, I met (or re-met, as the case may be) some of the wry babes from MamaPop and a few of their friends.  What follows is the abridged story, in photos.  

What you won't see is how I giggled awkwardly at regular intervals, tried to make a point to talk with each person there one-on-one and, failing that, retreated to "Hey! I make cakes! My weird hobby, let me show it to you!" and basically, yeah, I'm pretty certain by the end of the night everyone there was wondering who had invited the crazy redhead, anyways, and should they start talking restraining order?  But, at least outwardly, everyone was lovely and funny and kdiddy is wicked hawt. (Sorry. I'm partial to redheads. What can I say?)  Although I don't think I'll ever get used to watching 6 people sitting in a row in a club and all twittering on their phones.  (in best old lady voice "you kids today!" etc, etc.)

And so, without further ado (because, good gravy, that was a lot of ado!) I present:

Babes In Baltimore:

Going out on the town. This is my game face.

Laurie and Sarah rocking the black. Aren't they lov-er-ly?
Wherein I learn it is not wise to attempt to startle the sweetney in its natural habitat. She sees ALL, y'all.

See, now I had always heard you could tell you'd had too much to drink if the tip of your nose was numb, Mizz Tracey.  But I suppose this would work, too... (now please don't kick my arse..)

Baltimore Gal and kDiddy have a heart-to-heart.

(Love, love, LOVE the green dress. LOVE!)
Disnazzio allowing me to make her totally uncomfortable.  And why, yes, she IS just as charming and delightful as that adorable smile would suggest! 

Um. The end?

Why Jump Out of A Perfectly Good Airplane?

I'm not the most adventuresome soul, come right down to it.  Big Daddy T disagrees with me on this, and loves to point out that I am only on the East Coast because a decade ago I took a flight from California into the great unknown.  He doesn't believe me when I tell him that was not brave, it was self-preservation.  The only way for me to find my way in the world was to start my adult life far away from everything familiar.  It was the only way I could learn to break out of old habits and roles and figure out who I am.

It took years (and a good bit of therapy) to figure out there are words to describe some of the things I struggle with.  Depression. Social Anxiety.  Attention Deficit Disorder.  These things don't define who I am, they're just descriptors of some of my personality quirks.

As part of this ongoing Year Without Fear adventure, tonight I am breaking out of my comfort zone once again.  Other than attending BlogHer in 2008 (which was exponentially less scary than it could have been, thanks to Kelly's sheltering wing) I have never gone out all on my own to meet up with Internet People --  unlike my husband, who still has friends he made on a BBS circa 1994, when most of us still had no idea what, exactly, this whole "internet" business was all about.  (DC Tavern, Hollah!)  

So tonight, I'm heading to my first official tweetup.  I'm driving into Baltimore all by my little lonesome to meet up with some fabulous ladies and do some booty-shakin'.  (That sudden lightheadedness you feel? That is my anxiety-ridden-mother's gasp of horror, sucking all the oxygen out of the atmosphere.)  

Right now I'm busy squelching an anxiety attack of my own, but for a totally different reason. What if they don't like me? What if I'm my giddy, awkward, nerdy self and they don't get me?! What if I drive all the way to Baltimore and I chicken out and can't go in? What if, what if, what if...

So, yeah.  There's that.  I'm hoping to have it under control before I need to leave because, ya know, probably not a great idea to drive while hyperventilating. And yes, I do know how ridiculous this is.

I'm bringing the camera, and I shall return and report.  You'll notice I'm not worried about ME liking THEM.  (In fact, I'm more worried about coming off as a weird fangirl, since Sweetney is one of my most favoritest bloggers and is it inappropriate to lick someone you've only met once before who probably doesn't remember you anyway and oh my lawdy can I make this sentence go on any longer - I bet I can!)

While you are waiting - breathless, no doubt - for the follow-up report on this excursion, allow me to leave you with CUTE BABY to distract yourself.  You're welcome.

Even covered in mashed peas... he is a tiny, delectable slice of AWESOME.

Without Fear

Sometimes you have an epiphany in the middle of a grand, life-changing moment.  This has happened to me before - when my children were born, when I got married, when I got my fist tattoo.

This is not one of those epiphanies, though.  This one came to me over the brim of my coffee cup as I was noshing on a lemon-zucchini muffin with raisins in it and feeding small bites to the baby.

So far, my Year Without Fear has had mixed results.  I have been bolder in making grand changes in my life, the changes I have been wanting to make but was waiting on "someday" to start.  I have been less bold in making changes I know I should make but don't really want to. (Hello, diet and exercise, you dirty, dirty words.)  I started a container garden (only moderately successful), I switched to cloth diapers (VERY successful) and I joined a CSA (Holy Freaking Successful and Hi Farmer Billy! You're adorable!).  I've been cooking healthier meals for my family, eating nourishing foods like Beets, and doing my best to slay the dragons of depression and anxiety in my head.

In one aspect, however, I have not yet begun to fight.  I don't know if I have ever mentioned before (oh, maybe once or twice or eleventy-billion times) that I have trust issues.  Very few people get past the outer rim into the stratosphere of my inner emotions, let alone down to the hot-molten core.  

When this journal-of-sorts changed from a simple chronicling of my daily life into an outlet to share myself, it was freeing and terrifying all at the same time.  When family and friends found it and began to check in on me with regularity, it was just terrifying.  Over the years since, I find I have slowly begun to lock back up the vault that had begun to open here.

I never thought of myself as a closed person.  I've begun to see how much I have become that way, though.  I should have read the signs sooner; I should have seen a red flag when I went through postpartum depression and nobody but my husband had any idea, or had the first clue how bad it really was.  I'm realizing that I can't expect people to know how I feel if I don't share it.

And so it is that the next step in this continuing journey of self is this: I choose to reopen the vault.

To some family and friends, this means you are going to be allowed to see parts of my heart I have never revealed to you before.  You may not like everything you see.  I have spent my entire life wanting to be a writer while yet shutting down any creative expression that revealed too honest a part of me.

To the rest of you - my intrepid fellow-explorers, my friends at All Mediocre, and the rest of my Internet Peeps - after being with me as long as you have, I know you'll be the first to say "it's about time" and then embrace whatever is to come.  Because you have always done that for me.  Because even when we disagree, you embody the live-and-let-live philosophy I began to learn about in the wilds of Northern California.  (It tends to happen when you live near Berkeley for any amount of time.  Maybe not IN Berkeley, but I hear they put something in the water there.)

ANYwho, the can of worms is being opened.  It's time to practice what I preach.  It's time to let the monkey out of the bag. You know, so-to-speak.  

No more hiding. 

Come On And Ride The (CRAZY) Train

I've been slowly getting my energy back (I'm crediting the vitamins. Hello B12, and where have you been all my life?!)

The children have been acting somewhat more human that usual, too.  

My husband has been falling over himself to be Mr. Helpful, especially after I dared him to go 24 hours without acting like a playground pigtail puller.  (You like that alliteration, don't you.)  He even managed to do it -- he didn't tease, cajole, or otherwise provoke me for 2 entire days, actually.  And suddenly we were done bickering.  (Coincidence? Oh, I think not, Mr. T).

So I should have been on cloud nine.  Everything seemed to be coming together.  

And then, last week, I started falling asleep in the middle of the afternoon again.  I started crying for no reason.  I started snarling like a rabid she-wolf every time anyone came near me.

That's about the time I realized it had been a good 6 weeks since my last period.

...

Mull that over for a moment, won't you?  You'll recall I have 3 boys ages 6 and under.  Also, 2 cats, a dog, and 1 Beta fish.  My baby is exactly 10 months old.  So, you know, perfect time for a pregnancy scare!

...

I have never been so happy NOT to see that second pink line appear.  Or the second pink line on the second pregnancy test I took.  Or the third.  Or the... well, you get the idea.  See, the tests kept coming up negative, and yet... no visit from Aunt Flo.  The weeks rolled on. And on. And on.  My mental state got worse and worse, and I sorta became convinced that a positive pregnancy test was only a matter of time.

So you'll understand when I say I was about ready to throw a parade, complete with ticker-tape, when the crimson tide finally rolled in.  Relief! Not another baby!  Congratulations, WE ARE NOT PREGNANT.

So, of course, we celebrated this reprieve the only reasonable way.  Reasonably INSANE, that is. Because I am crazy.  If you doubted it before, you will doubt no longer.

Into the midst of our finally settled existence, wherein my hormones finally kicked into proper gear and the rabid she-wolf went back into hibernation, I decided to drop a grenade.

Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to the newest member of The Family Aum.  Meet Her Ladyship, The Duchess Stevie Nicks of Cue Ball.  We call her Stevie.

Her turn-offs include being left alone for any amount of time (even if you just needed to make a tinkle and PLEASE, dog, for the love of Bob, stop crying outside the bathroom door!), and sleeping anywhere that is not in our bed, preferably curled up next to your face on the pillow (which is cool and all, except when you wake up in the middle of the night and find yourself face-to-face with doggy taint. I don't care HOW cute she is, there's nothing cute about a dog's bung hole.) 

All that said, HOLY HANNA MONTANA, how cute is she?!

Some Moments Are Just Perfection.