Am I Normal?

Let's start out by saying that I have no idea what is going on in the background of this picture.

It looks like an album cover gone horribly wrong. Or a bad poster for a youth production of Andrew Lloyd Webber's Cats. All that aside, The Rock Star said the most hilarious thing following his face painting at his friend's birthday party.

While the kids watched their friend open presents, my son scratched his face. I assume he got a bit of orange paint on his finger because, with a look of horror, he questioned, "Mommy! Am I normal?" He was frantically pointing to the spot he'd scratched. I think he was wondering if he had scraped off all his face paint, thus returning to normal.

Of course, not wanting to miss my opportunity, I replied, "Honey, you are definitely not normal."

Polar Bears

Yesterday morning, while we were still in bed, The Rock Star came in. He started telling us about a dream he'd had. Apparently, in said dream, we were camping. A polar bear started chasing us and Troy and I hid Garrett in the bathroom at church. We hid Matthew in one of the Sunday school rooms before hiding ourselves (TOGETHER!) in another room off the sanctuary. Because, logically, it makes total sense that we would hide our children separately while we cowered together. As Garrett was explaining the dream to us I was trying to sort it all out in my mind.

"Garrett," I said, "Did you really dream about a polar bear chasing us last night?"

"Yes."

"No. I mean, did you seriously have a dream about a polar bear?" I inquired.

"Yes."

Troy, confused by the inquisition, asked me why I was interrogating our first born. "Because I had a dream that a polar bear was chasing us."

I'd dreamed that we were living in Alaska. We had a house as well as a research building. The man I was married to was, apparently, working on some kind of bear documentary. I think it was supposed to be Troy but he was about twice as wide as Troy, half again as tall as Troy, and looked very much like Yukon Cornelius. Except, well, not made of a weird clay substance.

In the dream, there was a polar bear stalking my son and me. The child was, evidently, a combination of The Rock Star and The Little Buddy because he was about two--Matthew's age--but decided Caucasian--like Garrett. In the dream, I was desperately trying to protect the child from the bear but the bear was always one step ahead. I'd run into a room. The bear would be waiting. I'd run from the house to the research den. The bear would be waiting. I simply could not get away from the menacing presence of the giant animal.

I'm no dream analyzer but I think I have mine figured out. Still, how bizarre is it that my five-year-old son dreamed something very similar? Is this normal? Are we a family of freaks? Wait. Don't answer that.

Shake It

Sometimes, what happens at the retreat doesn't always stay at the retreat.

This year, a couple of the girls got the bright idea that we'd all have to do something humiliating to receive our notes of encouragement. See, we have a basket that I take up (you can see it in the bottom left hand corner of the photo). It's full of blank note cards. Throughout the weekend, the women have the opportunity to give and receive notes of thanks, encouragement, and friendship. On Sunday morning there were a lot of notes to be distributed and it was decided that we would do goofy things in order to obtain what belonged to us.

Someone had to perform I'm a Little Teapot.


Someone else sang a song and pointed to various body parts.

A group of people performed a preschool song.

And then it was my turn.

The night before, a group of ladies had been playing Imaginiff. They were short a player so they wrote in my name. Then they had to choose which 70's dance I would be. One of the options was Shake Your Booty or Shake Your Groove Thing or something. The next morning they asked me if I could, in fact, shake mine. Turns out, I can. Independently of the rest of the my body, even. Although not particularly well when I'm not quite four days post biopsy. Not that the biopsy was in my butt. Um. Wow. This post has gone to Hades in a hurry.

Moving on.

In a nutshell, I declared that I could shake my, er, booty.

Naturally, an hour or so later, when it was time to collect my mail, the group decided that I needed to get my, uh, shake on.

So I did. And there are several pictures on Facebook to prove it.

On Monday night we took the boys to Chili's for free kids meals. The server brought us a large quantity of coasters which Matthew thoroughly enjoyed lining up and then declaring, "Yook! I made puzzle!" They were promoting 'Rita Fest and one side featured a picture of a margarita. On the flip side it says, SHAKE THAT THANG.

What with attending the Beth Moore conference in August, where all of us learned that thing is, indeed, pronounced thang, and then my shaking mine at the retreat, I think the Chili's slogan pretty much sums up women's ministries this year.

He's So Funny

Garrett: Mommy, I don't think I'll get married when I turn 21. I think I'll wait a minute.
Me: Okay. How come? (Not that I've ever wanted my son to get married at 21. I just figured there was a reason behind his sudden decision.)
Garrett: I just think I'll wait for a minute because when a guy gets married, the girl always starts talking about babies. (Oh my goodness! Where is he getting this? I mean, it's probably mostly true but yeesh!)
Me: Oh. Okay. And you don't want babies?
Garrett: Of course I want babies! But when a girl wants a baby and God says, "Not yet," she cries all the time. (It might be time for me to amend the story I tell him about how he came to be. Maybe from now on I will say, "God told mommy to wait and mommy was the pillar of strength, stability and faith.)
Me: ...And you definitely don't want your wife to cry all the time?
Garrett: No. I wouldn't like that.
Me: Well, it's alright with me if you wait a minute after you turn 21 to get married.
Garrett: Okay. Good. How about 22?

Grudge

Nine years ago today, I called off my engagement.

He was a Kansas City Chiefs fan but that isn't why I broke up with him.

Still, when my Chargers play at Arrowhead, my skin crawls a little and I feel nauseous. When I hear their noisy fans and watch that sea of red, I can't help but cringe.

It might be my longest running grudge.

These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things

The little one keeps tabs on the bigger one. One thousand times a day he asks about him. "Where brudder go?" "Brudder ah schoo?" "Brudder home!" "Brudder dowstair?"

And "Brudder" loves Matthew right back.

Oh sure, they have their moments. Sibling rivalry on an hourly basis. Garrett is a rule follower. Matthew thinks they were made to be broken. Garrett is bossy. Matthew is sensitive. Both spend their days vying for the alpha dog position. Even still, it's pretty much a coin toss.

I can't believe I lived more than two decades without evening knowing that these brothers would one day exist. Now I cannot imagine a day without them.

These are a few of my favorite things...

Obsessed with the Chest

Official diagnosis: Intraductal papilloma.

The bad news: Increased chance of breast cancer in the future.

The good news: The removed mass was totally benign.

On Saturday morning, when I woke up, there was still no visible bruising. On Saturday afternoon, when I took a shower, the whole entire...thing was an enormous bruise. The whole shebang. Black and blue and bright yellow. It looked like I'd been mauled by an angry wolf. That was six days ago. Today it's still bruised but hardly worth mentioning. When I went in for my post op this morning, the doctor said, "Oh, you have quite a bit of bruising."

I replied with, "You should have seen it on Saturday!" She apologized. It may have had something to do with the internal tissue exam she performed last Tuesday. Ya think?

We've decided that I am going to continue to be seen by her. Apparently, intraductal papillomas in thirty-year-olds are rare. Abnormal, she said. My tissue is compromised. Or something medical and scary sounding like that. It's enough to kind of freak a girl out.

But she didn't say the word carcinoma and she didn't say the word malignant. Instead I heard the reiterated words benign and papilloma and you're fine. And so I choose to focus on that.

I had a mammogram--at my request and for no good reason other than peace of mind--earlier in the year. I've had four exams, two ultrasounds and a biopsy in the past nine months. The doctor told me that it's great that I am so diligent about my breasts at my age. It was a strange accolade. I imagined a trophy inscribed with Most Attentive. The imaginary statue atop the trophy was inappropriate and made me laugh.

But we all need to be diligent. It doesn't matter if we're seventy or twenty-five. Apparently, I am going to live the rest of my life obsessed with my chest but maybe we all should be.

I can't stand breast cancer slogans like, Save the TaTas. That particular one literally makes me cringe. To me, to refer to them as tatas is disturbing at best and absolutely degrading and chauvinistic at worst. Save the Boobies is only slightly better. Marginally better. Hardly better at all, really.


Obsessed with the Chest--it could work.

For the Birds

Imagine The Rock Star's delight when we received a package today from my inlaws. We opened it and pulled out sticker books, sticker crafts, cookies, Halloween candy and a decorative scarecrow. He was thrilled.

He wanted me to put the scarecrow outside.

It's clearly not an outside decoration.

I explained this.

"How will it scare away the crows?" He asked.

"It won't. Which is fine. We don't really have an abundance of crows," I reminded him.

But it got me thinking. Maybe if I did put it outside it would scare the misguided seagulls back to California where they belong. I only recently learned that the Utah state bird is actually the California Gull. I feel so sorry for those stupid birds. It's totally like the Israelites being stuck in Egypt. There they were, slaving away, trapped under Pharoah's rule--unaware of just how great the Promised Land really was. A land flowing with milk and honey, it was. They'd all been born in Egypt and that was that.

They're not called the Utah Gull. No. They're from California. They just don't know it because they were born here. Whenever I see them, I try to nicely explain that it doesn't get cold where they come from. The water--it just keeps going. Granted, the Salt Lake is bigger than one bird could ever hope for but it rather pales in comparison to the Pacific Ocean. And waves. Oh, those poor birds are missing out on tides! Abundant fish, too. I don't actually know what lives in the lake but the whole things smells funky so I wouldn't recommend eating anything that comes out of it. Poor gulls, fly back to your home.

But they never will. Even in California, gulls are totally stupid. And aggressive. They'll snatch an entire sandwich right out of your hand. Oh. Yes. They. Will.

So if I thought that putting the scarecrow outside would do any good, I would. But it makes for a super cute indoor decoration. And as for the gulls, well, on a warm summer day when I look up and see a bunch of them flying around I close my eyes and pretend I'm at the beach. They're like a little piece of home.

Interestingly, when I'm in California, I can't stand sea gulls.

This is not a metaphorical post about how California is the promised land and Utah is Egypt and I'm enslaved here. God led us here and I love our ministry. I don't want to leave right now for anything. It really is just a post about the birds.


Thanks Gary and DeDe for the package!

The Power Of...

My husband is modest.

Much more modest than I am.

So he isn't overly enthusiastic when my boys run through the house shaking their naked tooshies and yelling, "Naked dance!"

He tolerates it for a few seconds, shakes his head and says, "Go put some clothes on!"

Last night Troy had a meeting at the church. When my boys were finished with their bath they both burst into their bedroom screaming, "Naked dance." I laughed. Then, Garrett struck a victory position.

He thrust one foot forward, pumped his hand in the air and shrieked, "The power of naked!"

I...just...I...don't...even...know...what...that...means.

Revelation & Belly Laughs

Have you ever played Telestrations? 

Have you ever played it at a women's retreat? If you haven't, you have no idea what you're missing. Unless you're a man. Then you really have no business being at a women's retreat. None. Whatsoever.

I was first introduced to this hysterical game at our retreat 13 months ago. Our speaker, who has since become one of my closest confidants, brought it with her. I was skeptical. Telestrations is like the love child of Pictionary and Telephone. I've never been good at Pictionary.

But we played. I laughed. I called my mom up and insisted she buy it for her own women's retreat which was approaching. I asked for it last Christmas. You cannot, simply cannot, play this game without laughing so hard you cry. Or injure a stomach muscle. Or both.

Yesterday, during our retreat free time, we played. One person gets a word. She writes it on page one of her dry erase booklet. She passes it. The next person looks at the word and then attempts to draw it. The next woman looks at the picture and writes the word or phrase she thinks it is. The next one draws it. And so on and so forth.

My friend, Christy, wrote the words "spin doctor" and passed it on. By the time it got to me, I read the words "surgical saw" and drew a guy on a table. Standing over him with an enormous saw was a stick figure with a surgical mask on. I drew an arrow to the saw. I also added a tray table at the end of the bed and intended to put smaller surgical tools on it but the tip of the pen was too fat. I passed my booklet on. 

"Vasectomy" is what my friend wrote before passing it on to another woman in our church.

She then drew a very, ahem, well endowed fellow and a giant pair of scissors. The next woman got it and guessed correctly (based, of course, on the most recent picture). Christy got it back, opened it up to the last page and began laughing hysterically. As she showed us each page, we were already giggling. By the time we saw the first "vasectomy" we were all laughing so hard we were crying. Then we saw the drawing. Kleenex had to get involved.

If this doesn't sound funny to you, I encourage you to play the game. I promise you'll laugh so hard you'll cry.

We do other stuff at retreat too.

We hear from the Lord. We fellowship. We eat way too much chocolate. We pray. We have quiet time with our Savior.

God's been rocking my world lately with the realization that I don't really know how to pray. I present my requests. "God, heal this person. God, heal that person. God, help with this. God, help with that. Amen." For several weeks now the Lord has been revealing to me that my requests need to come last. First, and foremost, my prayer life is about worshiping Him. Of course, our speaker spoke on this very subject last night. And I was impacted. Anything that brings us nearer to the Lord is good and worthy of praise. Even the bad stuff. We need to pray accordingly.

There is time for food and fellowship and chocolate and sleeping and snugly pajamas and conversation and making new friends and keeping old friends and there is, indeed, time to learn about our God. After all, He's the reason we do this every year.

But we also laugh. Deep, belly laughs with fellow believers, who endeavor to walk, every day, with the perfect and Triune God. I can't tell you how refreshing a weekend characterized by revelation and belly laughs is.

Biopsy

I sat in the chair, soft pink gown tied loosely in the front. The significance of the color wasn't lost on me. As I waited for the doctor to come in I contemplated my surroundings. Enormous bright light, jars of liquid, liberal amounts of gauze, needles, scalpels and a plethora of other stomach turning paraphernalia. I'd already sat in the waiting room for a good half hour past my appointment time. Now I was sitting in the office. Waiting.

When I'd pulled up in front of the surgical center I was doing alright. I'd prayed the entire way over that God would remove from me a spirit of fear and grant me courage in its place. It was courage I'd had as I boldly rode the elevator up to the third floor. It was courage I'd lost as I flipped through magazine after magazine and allowed the Father of Lies to use fear to permeate my thoughts. I'd finally been called back and my blood pressure was the highest I'd ever seen it. Thankfully, it was still well within normal. The nurse left and I waited.

I called my mommy. "Remember the Flu Shot Experience?" I was six. The nurse came in with the vaccination. I snapped. Berserk. Completely. I ran around the office and out the door, shrieking at the top of my lungs. It ended with my mother and the pediatrician holding me down so that the nurse could administer the vaccine. I had to write a note of apology. It wasn't my finest moment. 

I proceeded to tell my mom that I was seriously contemplating a repeat performance. I mean, it's been 24 years. I figured that maybe my time had come once again. She asked me if I could feel her hugging me. I didn't answer for a long time. She probably thought I was mute on account of the fact that I was wondering how I could feel a hug from 800 miles away. In actuality, I wasn't speaking because the lump in my throat was swollen with fear and tears. I knew if I spoke it would all come flooding out.

I'm just not a huge fan of needles. Or scalpels. Especially if they're going to be used on me. Especially if they're going to be used on my breast.

It all started back in April when I noticed a tiny lump just under the skin. After waiting a few weeks to see if it would change, disappear, or grow, I went to see my doctor. Based on its location, she suspected that it was a blocked duct and had me put hot compresses on it. I went back to see her a week later. The bump had not changed. Again, because of its place of residence, she sent me to a specialist. I saw her in June. After an ultrasound, the plan was to keep an eye on it for the summer and come back to see her three months later.

So last Monday I saw her again. She opted to remove it. 

Eight days later I found myself sitting in the procedure room waiting for her to enter the scene. My mom was 800 miles away but, thanks to technology, pressed directly to my ear. She talked me off my ledge. Or, at least, she talked me out of running around the doctor's office screaming like a total ninny. After all, it really wasn't even appropriate when I was six. I don't remember what she said to me but I loudly declared, "I know I'm not going to die!" And just as the second half of the sentence came out, the doctor walked in. All she heard was the declaration, "...going to die!" 

She quickly turned her head in my direction and said, "Are you talking to me?" I explained that, no, my mother was on the phone. I quickly hung up. She had me get on the table. Then she couldn't find a marker. So she left for another five minutes.

I hadn't been afraid of the procedure until two different people, on the same day, told me that the numbing needle was quite painful. I stared up at the giant light and pictured a torture prison where people routinely came at my breasts with enormous needles of death. She came back in. She told me that the first part was the worst part. So I've heard. I told her that I'd once run around the doctor's office in an attempt to avoid a flu shot. I'm nothing if not chatty when nervous. "It's just like having dental work done," she explained.

"I've never had a cavity," I replied.

"Get me the small needle," she said to the nurse. Oh good, I thought. I'm getting away with the small needle. I don't think her or her pregnant nurse had any intentions of holding down a full grown woman with a sudden and irrational fear of biopsies. The nurse handed her the biggest needle I've ever seen used on me and that's when I realized that it probably had something to do with width and not a lot to do with length. She plunged it mercilessly into my...self. Okay. She totally didn't. In fact, I barely felt anything. Really. It hurt less than a flu shot to be sure. Just after the initial poke I did feel a slightly uncomfortable push as, I assume, she went into tissue. "Is it horrible?" she asked. 

"No!" I almost shouted, annoyed that I'd lost nearly an hour of my life freaking out about this. I should have listened to my mom who kept telling me that it couldn't possibly be that bad. Note to self: Mother knows best.

Then she performed an excisional biopsy which I've come to realize is the same thing as a lumpectomy. I felt nothing except for weird tugs and pulls. The worst part was listening to the snip snip snip of the scissors and realizing that she was inside of my body cutting things out. It was just a little disconcerting. She pulled out a pea sized mass. Just as she began to sew me up my stomach began to growl. I started pushing on it with my available hand--the other one was secured under my head--and hoping that if I sort of massaged it, the protest might stop. In the middle of a stitch she asked, "Are you feeling this? Is this hurting you?" 

"No," I said. "My stomach won't stop growling." She then shared with me that her stomach often has dialogue as well. This prompted my sharing of the time my stomach distracted an entire group of students from the SAT at hand. She assured me it wasn't distracting her. "Good. I'd rather ruin 100 SAT scores than distract my surgeon," I answered. She laughed. 

She finished sewing me back together and put medical glue on the incision. And then I waited and waited. The nurse was standing there. The doctor was sitting there. I was lying there. Nothing was happening. Am I supposed to jump up and be on my merry way? I wondered.

She pulled the light closer. "The warmth from the light helps the glue dry. I want to to make sure it's dry before I put a bandage on," she said. "Otherwise you'd have to come back so that I could remove the bandage. Or live with it forever. Your choice."

I laughed. "I'd probably rather not have a bandage stuck to my chest for the rest of my life."

"Oh! The worst was when I did a rectal surgery. A few hours later the poor woman called me up and told me that I'd glued her, uh, cheeks together." Let me tell you, nothing makes you love your surgeon more than finding out she once glued a patient's butt together. "Thankfully she was a really good sport about it," she finished.

I'm really private about certain things. My health is one of them. I just didn't want to tell anyone, or for goodness sake blog about it, until I had an answer. I could barely stand the waiting myself and I didn't want to wait knowing that everyone else was sitting on pins and needles right along with me. So I came home and I kept quiet. Turns out, if you want to keep quiet, you need to tell your five-year-old the plan. He knew something was up so I explained to him that mommy had a bump taken out of her. I showed him my bandage. That night, Troy took the boys to the softball field. A man from our church asked Troy if he was on Daddy Duty. "Yeah, Lori's not feeling well," he answered. 

"Mommy has a band-aid on her nipple!" Garrett screamed. And if you think I didn't just try to figure out a more appropriate synonym for nipple to use in its place you'd be wrong. Because I totally did. But that's what he said. To a man my father's age. About that man's pastor's wife. Good times. The best of times, really. So much for keeping things quiet. One must have first birthed a quiet child, I suppose.

While that fun episode was occurring, I was at home, recovering. Oddly, I was completely at peace with whatever news the results would bring. I kept praying that God would use this to glorify Him. If breast cancer--at thirty of all things--would bring Him glory, so be it. If a clear reading would bring Him glory--bring it. If I've learned one thing through the trials of bringing children into my family, I've learned that God's way is Plan A. Every. Single. Time. 

"If I have cancer, God, so be it. May your name be lifted high!"

As it turns out, I don't.

The doctor called this afternoon. It was benign. 

To God alone be the glory!

Hey Batter

The Rock Star just finished playing t-ball. He was on the Phillies. His little brother wanted to play.

In twenty years, when he's playing for the Phillies, should this be the photo they put up on the jumbotron when he's up to bat?

Oh, I think it should be.

Growing Up

In some ways, I think he still looks exactly like this...

Minus, maybe, the super chubby cheeks.

But I recognize the shirt he's wearing.

And I know it's in his brother's drawer now.

I love my little men.

But I think I might just always miss my babies.

Wieners. Yep. I Went There.

"Mom," The Rock Star said from the backseat, "what's a wiener?"

I waited a good five seconds before responding. I thought about asking him to use it in context but then I would have had to explain context. Instead, I asked him to use in a sentence.

He raised his voice. "WHAT'S A WIENER?"

And I began to giggle, somewhat hysterically. He's smart, that one. I could just hear his internal monologue, That is a sentence!


"Okay. Well, it depends on how you're using it. There are different kinds of wieners." At this point I was speaking intermittently, whenever I stopped choking on my own laughter. "There are wiener dogs. Those are the ones that have long bodies and really short legs. They're called that because they look like a hot dog. Hot dogs used to be called wieners all the time. Sometimes they're still called wieners."

"Oh," he said. "So a wiener is a hot dog?"

"Yes," I declared. Then I asked, "Did you hear someone say the word wiener?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Who?"

"My friend Bob*," Garrett replied. Bob is seven. He lives up the street.

"What was he talking about?" I asked. A hot dog. Make it be about a hot dog. I thought.

"The spot right here." He pointed.

I sighed. And then I got to explain that different people use different words for their private places. In our family, we call them by their medical terms. We always have. We always will. Because I don't want my kid walking in to the doctor's office and saying something about his wiener.



*His name isn't really Bob. If that wasn't already clear. Names have been changed to protect, in this case, the not so innocent.

What's The Difference?

By way of setting the scene, it's important to know that I'm participating in a Sunday school class on the book of Ephesians and a Bible study by Kay Arthur on Covenant. Each day I spend time in prayer and work on a section of one book or the other. Well, except for Sunday. On Sunday I generally ignore both books and, I don't know, read a Psalm or something.

So. Yesterday. I decided to work on my Covenant study. Garrett was playing in the backyard with a friend and Matthew was sleeping. I carried my book, Bible, and colored pencils (it's an inductive study which led to Garrett's friend asking, "Are you coloring?" with a tone that clearly expressed, Wow, lady, you are way too old be coloring.) up from the basement and sat down at the kitchen table.

But when I went downstairs to get the book I thought about what the study would be on that day. We'd already explored both the covenants between David and Jonathan. I thought, perhaps, Jonathan's son might grace the pages of my study.

"Oh," I said aloud, "maybe today will be about Methuselah." I descended the stairs. Wait. That doesn't sound right. "What's his name? Johnathan's son name is..." I know it. I know it. It's..."Mephibosheth." Now, because I talk to myself incessantly, I continued the one-sided conversation. "Who the heck is Methuselah? Oh yeah. She's the evil witch from Sleeping Beauty."

At that point I was standing in the middle of our office, completely confused. I picked up my work book. "Wait. No."

I began ascending the stairs. "Mephibosheth is Jonathan's son. Methuselah is the really old guy in Genesis. Maleficent is the creepy woman from Sleeping Beauty."

Can anyone else understand my confusion? Mephibosheth, Methuselah, Maleficent. What's the difference?