Four Things

• If you are on Instagram, consider giving Merriam-Webster a follow.  Yes, as in the dictionary.  They post a Word of the Day that puts most of those desk calendars and toilet paper to shame.  Here's a recent one I'm still thinking about:

Can you imagine using this in a sentence around people?  "I don't know what it is about tulips, man- I just grok them."  They'd think you were crazy, throwing random nonsense syllables into what was a normal conversation.  

This, of course, means I'm going to try using it at the library today.

• If you happen to be at the national school nurse conference in San Diego next month, I recommend going to this session:

Why, yes, that is my mom presenting it, because who else has favorite pediatric infectious diseases?  Or refers to themselves as a "former 'Germ Wench'"?  I can promise the whole thing will be a hoot, and am currently taking bets on how many times she mentions hand-washing.  

Pre-test:  Who can tell me three things that are wrong with this combatant's hand-washing technique?  I am not even kidding, and I promise my sisters know.

• One Friday of every month, our library hosts a little thing called Soup and Sound, where the library staff makes a meal and a person or group comes in and performs.  Over the past year I've heard a presentation by the Iowa Honey Bee Queen, a contingent from our high school speech team came in, and last month, a local hammered dulcimer player shared his talents.  I pulled Adelaide out of school to attend, much to her delight.

I believe she enjoyed listening to Mr. Greenlaw play, and it was so generous of him to let everyone fiddle around with the instrument, but if I'm being honest, the carrot cake was probably her favorite part. 

• Derek's won a bunch more awards for his work over the past few months, but one is a doozy:

He won a Telly!  What's a Telly, you ask?  It's a big ol' honking international competition with thousands and thousands of entries and only the best win the good stuff.  I did not take that from their website.  

I believe I've shared his winning video before, but just in case, here it is again (and before you say, "Resource Recovery Plant?  No, thanks," well, this is actually interesting and will make you question what your own community does with their trash):

Congratulations, husband!

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P.S.  What do you think the past tense of "grok" is?  "Grokked"?  And why isn't it "grock"?  I can't think of any other English verb or noun that ends in "k" rather than "ck."  Mock, shock, lock, hock, chock, dock, why can't I let this go, knock, pock, sock... 

Family Photos: It Sounded Like a Good Idea

Every time my family gets together, my mom requests a picture with her and Mark and the grandkids for their Christmas card, a picture of the daughters and her, and picture of whomever is receiving the most recently completed quilt.

The thing about taking pictures with small children, though, is that anything is a distraction.  Not just loud noises and such, but things like pinecones and the sky are distracting.  It's hard to blame them, really; who wants to look at a shrieking adult with a camera when you could look at a cat?

Norah Mae desperately wanted Ed the Cat (that is his full and respectful title, thank you), and the magical powers of The Ed made Charlotte smile.  Kelli and Aaron are just well-trained.

We tried bringing Ed into the shot, to see if it would be less distracting, but the lure of his soft fur proved irresistible to Vada.

I have thirteen photos of Vada petting Ed, who is very tolerant for an elderly cat. 

Ellie was more interested in petting humans, but she's one and hasn't yet grasped the difference between a gentle stroke and a sharp tug.

Char is upset because she just got her hair yanked.  Ellie is upset because she got scolded for yanking.

Aren't pictures fun, children?  Are we having a good time yet?

Because they obviously weren't having a good time, at one point we took a break and the children instantly scattered, darting into the trees.

Eventually we got all the children in one photo with Mom and Mark.  As for everyone all smiling, well...

Let's be honest: I think we all know I'm using this post as an excuse to show you how adorable my family is.

Not to mention these two, who are clearly MFEO. (Made For Each Other.  Name that movie!)

They're also the ones to receive the latest quilted offering from my mother.

It's their wedding quilt.  We won't discuss how long they've been married.  (HINT:  I was 8 1/2 months pregnant with Caedmon at their wedding, and somebody just had a birthday...)  A quilt that size has to take forever, though, and I love how it looks like stained glass.  To me, anyway.

Next time, my mother sports a halo of daughters and we discuss why you should feel sorry for her!

Patchwork

My mom and Mark came for a visit over the weekend.

Those are two grandboys and a bunch of quilts skulking around her.  This is not an unusual sight- particularly the quilts. 

In my family, if you get married or have a baby nobody tunes up a brass band or bakes you 1,000 casseroles or performs some ancient blessing.  My grandma, aunts, and mother will, however, attempt to smother you in warm, quilted love.

The three quilts on the left were made by Mom; the three on the right by Aunt Kay.

Those quilts up there are only the baby quilts our children received in thanks for being born.  After Derek and I got married, we received four quilts over the space of around two years, because quilts take time and between my cousins and sisters and I there are eight of us who need a quilt commemorating every major milestone.  And those wedding quilts are no joke:  Big enough to cover a queen-sized bed, in an assortment of color palettes and designs.  At one point Derek wondered aloud if all these quilts were an attempt to pad the walls.  This was not an unreasonable query.

And not to worry:  The men in the family aren't left out of the quilting venture; they're frequently drafted into service building quilt ladders.  I know this because there's one beside me right now, holding all my wedding quilts.  These men are also excellent at not touching the quilts at quilt fairs (touching of the quilts being strictly forbidden at such 'dos- but you knew that) and waiting outside the fabric shop not judging how long it's taking nor how many dollars are flying out of the women folks' hands.  They know that this is all in the name of art and heirlooms, or were perhaps ever so gently made to understand the first time they were foolish enough to challenge their resident quilter.

Never fear, Quilters!   I only opened those blinds all the way for the purposes of this photo; I don't want sunlight fading those colors any sooner than necessary.

I worry, at times, about my lack of quilting ambition.  I come from a robust line of quilters, and am perfectly proficient with needle and thread and sewing machine.  Shouldn't I be doing piecework in my sleep?  Feel the overwhelming urge to peruse quilting patterns when someone announces they're expecting?  Suffer guilt when buying a *gasp* STORE-BOUGHT BLANKET?  

The aforementioned robust line of quilters- at least, the two on the far left; that's a great-grandma and her sister.

Then I remember my fabric hoard (it's just so pretty); The Incident, aka that one time I found Adelaide attempting to use my rotary cutter for a craft project and I went the teeniest tiniest bit Mommy Dearest not because I was worried for her safety but because it was my rotary cutter; plus my mom didn't start quilting in earnest until my sisters and I were old enough to leave her in peace for thirty consecutive minutes.  My time may yet come.

Until then, I'm just going to enjoy the fruits of my mom, my aunts, and my grandma's labors, draped so lovingly around our house and its inhabitants- after all, this is Iowa.  It's cold up here.

Speaking of which, Mom?  I'm pretty sure I never got a quilt for moving to Iowa.  A small oversight, I'm assuming...?

Now It's Extra-Dirty Laundry

Yesterday my mom asked if she should bring her carpet shampooer when she next comes for a visit here in a few weeks.  She has not yet learned that the answer to this question is always, always "Yes."  Not that I mind finding those surprise crunchy parts of the carpet upstairs- it's like a super fun game that no one wins.

This week's carpet deposits include the puke-fest that inspired a middle of the night half-coherent Christmas song rip-off and our other son's contribution, which we discovered when he came into our room the other night and proudly announced, "I just peed on my dirty clothes basket!"  I investigated this claim, and sure enough:  dirty clothes- soaked.  Hamper- soaked.  Carpet all around the hamper- soaked.  Wall behind the hamper- dripping.  That kid must have been banking his milk all day, looking forward to this little gift.  Three-year-olds are such givers.

He seemed genuinely astonished and not a little disgruntled when he got a spanking for his efforts.  It would seem that his imagination supplied visions of a pat on the back, or perhaps exclamations of wonderment at this new-found masculine ability to pee wherever the heck he wants, all while standing up.

It was my sad duty to disabuse him of this notion.


Yes, Mom.  Please bring the carpet shampooer.

The Best Slippers In The Entire World, If Not The Entire Universe, And I'm Not Even Exaggerating (Much)

I know I said I was going to write another cancer post... like, yesterday... or maybe even the day before... but guess what?

I haven't felt like it.

And guess what else?

I still don't feel like it.


You know what I do feel like writing about?

Slippers.

That's right.  Slippers.  I guess it's just a frivolous kind of day.  And cancer is anything but frivolous.


So here's the thing.  I'm not really a gift person.  Derek and I went through that Love Languages book a few years ago, and guess which love language comes in dead last for me?

Right again.  Receiving of gifts.

That's not to say I don't like any gifts, ever.  I just prefer for people to say nice things to me or do stuff for me rather than give me more stuff.  I think it kind of ties in with the fact that I'm not really a 'stuff' person.  If our house caught on fire, we got everyone out safely and still had time to grab a material object, I really have no idea what I'd grab.  Maybe the quilts my mom, grandma, and aunts have made for us.  Maybe one of the books Derek has gotten for me.  The value I place on those items lies more in the people behind them, however, not so much on the things themselves.

I'm sure this is also all part of the reason that I prefer practical gifts.  (Unless it's old.  Then it doesn't have to be practical at all.)  Well, that and the fact that I'm super picky about the stuff I do want.  I'm actually pretty fortunate in that the people around me all seem to get me pretty practical stuff for gifts.  I can't really remember the last time I got a gift I just couldn't stand.  (Wait.  That's not true.  I once participated in one of those Secret Santa thingies and got knick knacks and useless dust catchers for three. weeks. straight.)

I'm basically the most difficult person in the world.

One of the things I'm picky about are slippers.  I wear slippers all the time.

I don't just mean most days, or most evenings, or the coldest weeks out of the year, or when I'm sick.

Starting around October all the way into the beginning of May, I wear my slippers from the moment my feet touch the ground until I'm sliding my feet out of them and swinging them into bed.  The reasons for this are:

• We have bare floors on the main level of our house, and not those fancy radiant heating floors; hardwood and laminate floors that hover just above an old and chilly basement.

• We live in Iowa.  It's usually cold from October until May.

• I stay at home with our kids, so I'm on these floors all day, every day, and finally

• I'm a big fat pansy who hates having cold feet.

As a result of all those things, I'm picky about my slippers.  I don't like the backless kind; no backs = shuffling, and I'm already outnumbered by these little heathens we call children- why on earth would I wear something that slows me down, thus handicapping me and giving them yet another advantage?  I also don't like those thin little things that as far as I can tell are really just glorified socks.  I would also like to wear something that is reasonably attractive; when it's a battle just to find time for a shower and a clean pair of jeans, you don't want to walk around in something that, while comfortable, makes you look even uglier and stay-at-home-mom-ish.  Trust me on this one.

Fear not- there is a point to all this whining and complaining.  

BEHOLD-  The perfect slipper.

I'm not exactly a regular L.L. Bean kind of shopper, unless I'm finding it second-hand at a garage sale.  And make no mistake:  these slippers are kind of pricey.  (They're $40.  Forty dollars is a fortune to spend in my world, at least on slippers.)  I justify the cost by reminding myself just how much I wear these babies.  That, and not actually buying them myself; these were a birthday present (thanks, Mom!).

And by the way?  I only asked for these because I had completely worn out my old pair, which I received for my birthday four years ago.

I know it's hard to tell, but the one on the left is the old slipper.

Now the one on the right is the old one.  (I knew you were confused- it's like I can read your mind.)

I probably should have asked for a new pair last year, but I'm a firm believer in stretching things to their absolute limit of usefulness.  

Which is why I'm still wearing my old pair right now.  I keep telling myself I'll put on the new pair on the next really cold day.  Or the next time I trip on the laces that will no longer tie when I'm walking down the stairs and almost die.

Whichever comes first.

Note:  Just in case there's any confusion, this is not a paid endorsement by L.L. Bean.  They just have awesome slippers (hey, these would actually be a good Christmas gift, guys!), and I like to talk about really random/boring things sometimes.  

Newsflash: Cancer Sucks

Thank you all for the lovely birthday wishes.  And thank you to my husband who lied to me when he said he needed the password to our Blogger account so that he could look and try to find a way to put a bunch of photos together for a new banner on our blog but actually needed it to write a wonderful birthday post which was one of many thoughtful surprises he arranged for my birthday.

He also set up a surprise birthday dinner with a couple of my friends, which was a perfect present for me (I got an evening at a restaurant that I love but he doesn't particularly care for and got to spend a kid-less evening with my friends), even though I know he had to repeatedly restrain himself from doing something like throwing a big, people-infested surprise party, which would be right up his alley but would likely cause an anxiety-induced stroke in me.


But do you know what one of the best parts of this birthday was?

I turned thirty.

I turned thirty, which is fun in and of itself, but more importantly, I am now thirty and I don't have cancer.  Hallelujah!


Before I go on, I would just like to clarify that I do have a line of reasoning behind my goal of "Turn 30 and Be Cancer-Free," and that it is completely rational.  (Well, maybe not completely.  Maybe just somewhat rational.  You be the judge.)


This is a photo of my mom, my sister Kelli, a baby belonging to a friend of the family, and me.  (My sisters and I lived half our lives in ballet costumes, but I'm really not sure why mine is rolled partway down my torso.  Apparently eight-year-old me was a bit of an exhibitionist.)

No, my mom had not recently spent quality time in a concentration camp; she was mid-chemo therapy.  Oh, and she was thirty.

Starting to make sense?

I've spent a large portion of the past decade engaging in a kind of magical thinking:  If I can just make it to 30, I'll be safe from cancer.  

Yes, I know that's not entirely true.  Statistically speaking, the average American's risk of cancer increases each year they're alive.  And if you have an immediate blood relative with a history of cancer, that risk markedly jumps.

Yes, I know that my mom was actually thirty years and two months when she was diagnosed, so I actually have two more months before I hit the actual magical date.

I do have a couple things going for me:  my mother had a history of benign lumps before one of them actually turned up malignant, and I have had zero such lumps, zero such scares.  (My sisters, on the other hand, are another story, but I'm not going to write about that right now because doing so sets my heart to racing and brings me back to the most recent and most serious scare just a few months ago, where for the few days we were waiting for the test results I would be going about my day only to find tears streaming down my face- it seems that I lose complete control of my tear ducts when I'm terrified for the lives of my sisters.)

The other positive is that even if I were to turn up with cancer one of these days, I would have several advantages my mom didn't, one of the most important being that miracle anti-nausea drug Zofran (this pic was taken in January 1990; Zofran was FDA approved in January 1991), and the white count boosting drug Neupogen (approved April 1998).  Every time my mom went in for chemo, her white count would drop, one time going as low as 900 (normal range is 4,300-10,800), which resulted in a week-long hospital stay for my poor, septic mother.

(Confused about some of the medical jargon?  In waaaay dumbed down terms, your white count pertains to the amount of white blood cells present in your blood- white blood cells are your body's defense system, and I always think of them as eating up all the old, damaged, sick, or abnormal gunk present in your body, a picture that I'm pretty sure comes from a high school biology textbook- so when you don't have enough of those white blood cells, your body is way more susceptible to catching any nastiness floating around you.  Also, when I say my mom was septic, I mean there was an infection in her bloodstream- lack of white blood cells, remember- which causes your blood pressure to lower, which causes inadequate blood flow, which causes organ malfunction.  If you already knew all this, sorry.  You really should have just skipped ahead.)

Oh, and about that chemo therapy?  My mom also agreed to be part of a study where they were randomly assigning different chemo patients with different dosages of old, trusted chemo drugs, trying to see if a high-dosage blast over a shorter period of time could potentially bring about remission sooner.  My mom happened to draw the highest dose out of the high-dose group.  Basically what this means is that rather than giving her low levels of poison to try and kill the cancer over the course of a year, they spent three months absolutely annihilating her body with chemo.  And in the end, the study concluded that whether you use tons of chemo drugs in a short amount of time or smaller amounts of chemo drugs in a longer period- it makes absolutely no difference.  Terrific.

It was a rough time for our family.



Which I'll tell you more about tomorrow.  Or the next day.  Because I'm tired of typing today.

(I'm 30 and I don't have cancer!  Huzzah!)



P.S.  I just realized that some of you may not know, and I may have created a kind of inadvertent cliffhanger- my mom did survive, and has been cancer-free for 22 years now.  Double-huzzah!