A's timeline...

September 13th, 2010: My girl A, my friend whom I love more than a sister, goes to her doctor because of a suspicious lump under her arm. 

September 20th, 2010:  A has a biopsy of the nodes. 

September 22nd, 2010:  Results are in. She has cancer.  I cried as I wrote about that here: http://mommakiss.blogspot.com/2010/09/shes-sick.html 

September 25th, 2010:  We have a meeting of the minds to go over what's next. Surgeries? Chemo? Has is spread? I have hope: http://mommakiss.blogspot.com/2010/09/i-have-hope.html

October 5th(ish), 2010: A finds out it's not just a lumpectomy, she has stage 3 breast cancer, triple negative stuff going on. She needs a double mastectomy.  It's an aggressive fucking cancer.

October 6th, 2010. We celebrate A's 37th birthday with mixed emotions. Her last birthday with her boobs. Her last birthday with the hair she was born with. 

October 20th, 2010: Dinner with A, her mother and sister. We laugh and cry and I got a speeding ticket on the way home. Almost pulled the "BUT MY FRIEND HAS CANCER card" but didn't chance it. $170 donated to the MA Registry. Fuckers.

October 21st, 2010: A has a double mastectomy. She is released in a day and a half, the boobless wonder. 

October 23rd, 2010:  I visit the invalid only to see she's recovering very well. I help her wash her hair in the kitchen sink - let me tell you - after 4 days, she needed the shampoo. 

November 18th, 2010: Chemo begins.

December 1st, 2010: A decides to shave her head.  She's losing some hair and just wants to take charge, so we make an event of it. She's got her best girls with her at the salon. That week, I treasured the simple act of shampooing my own hair: http://mommakiss.blogspot.com/2010/12/friday-flip-off-12-3.html

Many undocumented dates:  Dinner, movies and shopping with A. She came with me & the boys to Toy Story on Ice. We've had sleep overs, where she takes "Nancy" (her wig) off and my 3 year old decides to tell her to "putchur hair back on!" During a hot flash, my two little boys touch her bald head with their cold hands and she sighs with content.  We've celebrated birthdays, Thanksgiving, Christmas, the New Year.

She's living life. As a cancer patient. But she's living it HARD. If anyone needs suggestions on how to practice the art of living life with grace - damn, choose any one day in her entire life and you'll be impressed. 

Which brings me to tomorrow. 

Thursday, February 24th, 2011: A's very last chemo treatment.  Very. Last.

I have all the confidence in the world that this has worked. That she has rid her body of cancer. She's still got 30 radiation treatments ahead, and she's ready for them. So ready.

But on Thursday, we will celebrate. We are going to buy the really expensive champagne and enjoy an intimate dinner with family and a few friends. She and Nancy will rock as the guest of honor(s). 

A is done with chemo. A is DONE with chemo.

Something's fishy

I had to work this weekend. Meh.

Sunday morning, my children "let us sleep in" by going downstairs "to play."

Let me preface this by saying my kids? Are generally pretty decent. They whine, they bitch, they make me wipe their ass.

However.

We've never had an incident with scissors, sharpies on furniture or walls, fingers in sockets...none of that. They're typically good with the general stuff.

Until Sunday morning.

They came up to our room around 7.15 and told us they fed the fish.

These were brand new fish they they purchased with daddy just the day before. Daddy spent a week cleaning the tank, getting all those rocks and castles and shit in there, oxidizing the water. When he put the fish in on Saturday, he fed them - in front of the boys - and when the 5 year old asked if he could do it, we said in unison "No, feeding the fish is a job for Mom's and Dad's."

Strike one, kids, when you tell us you fed the fish knowing you shouldn't be doing it.

Strike two? When we go down and see that they had dumped half a can of food in the tank.

Filter? Ruined.  Rocks? Dirty.  Fish? All dead within 12 hours. 

Holy Fuck, did my husband yell. If the neighbors didn't already think we're crazy, it's confirmed now.

5 year old sent to his room, 3 year old sent to bottom step. For 30 minutes.

The little monsters knew they were in trouble. And then? The 3 year old says "I wanna get up, I wanna say sorry. We didn't mean to kill the fish and we're sorry we were yelling bad words, too."

Big brother? "STOP TELLING THEM WE WERE YELLING BAD WORDS!"

Strike 3. They lost all t.v. privileges for the day.

Which is really punishment against us, right? Well, my husband, as I sauntered off to work.

My damn kids are turning into jerks, and I blame myself. I've been working many many hours. I'm sick again, so when I'm home, I'm garbage.

This whole quality of life "deal" is all FUBAR right now. Not sure how to fix it, though. I can't even keep fish alive. 

Grand gestures

I haven't been home for bedtime all week.

Got a new situation at work. Co-worker got promoted, is now my boss, The Douchenozzle is a WAY different manager than my old boss (who's older and a softie and has kids and is a Christian! God Fearing!)

Anyway.

My schedule has changed, for the worse, and I've been working a TON. Mr. Kiss has been picking up the kids, making dinner, doing bedtime, tucking in, doing all that stuff Momma's supposed to do.

Don't get me wrong, he's great at it. But I HATE missing it for so many days in a row.

To make it up to my kids?

I'm taking them to a super fun show on Friday. I am not above bribery or grand gestures to make them think their Momma rocks, no matter how much she's away from home.

Best part? I didn't even have to think very hard about what to do. Hell Yah! I won these supercalifragilistic tickets to see the Toy Story dudes at Disney on Ice. My girl A is going to come with us. I'm going to buy those boys cotton candy and popcorn and juice and whateverthehellelsetheywant!

Why?

Because I have mom guilt.

Whatever.

We're going to have a blast. And we're going to stay at A's house afterward. And she's making them a killer breakfast in the morning. And when I drop them off and go right back to work on Saturday, I'll know they'll be remembering our super fun time at the "Party" the night before.

I win over Dada.

That's all.

No, Wait, That's not all! I forgot to tell ya who I won the tickets from: SarahViz from the Trenches of Mommyhood. AND, I get to meet her (hoping her kids aren't too sick to go).

Thanks love, I needed this win ;)

WW My Name is KID!

Kid Rock. Picture taken by Mr. Kiss. Private concert for the team after the Super Bowl. Uh huh. 

Monster

We're all perfect parents right?

Never yell. Never serve preservatives to our cherubs. Always comb our kids' hair. Houses are spotless. Skinny and pretty soccer moms.

Heh.

Jaysus, if you ARE that kind of parent, you may wanna move along because this ain't the place for you.

Still here? Cool.

Now I want to send you away: Today I'm admitting one of my MANY failures as a mother. At Natalie's place (the famed Mommy of a Monster).

Love her Monster Mommy Moment feature.




Go read that shit.

If you judge me, you're an asshole.

But don't worry, I'm pretty much ok with that.

Hearty Wishes

I've been married for over 8 years. Hell, if we lived in Hollywood instead of AshVegas, that would be like a century.

During my short tenure as a Mrs. I've learned a few things about boys. If you want something, be specific. That husband of yours? He can't read minds. So I give him lists. For birthdays, Christmases, anniversaries, Mother's Days. One year the Christmas list was a powerpoint presentation and I put on my little schoolgirl out fit, used a pointer, everything. I had a lot of lovely gifts under the tree that year. (It had nothing to do with the outfit.) (Let me believe that.)

Moving on. I'm not typically big on Valentine's Day. I mean. I'm a "sure thing." I don't "need" a date that night. I'd prefer a random Thursday happy hour with him so that we could have an uninterrupted conversation. And I surely don't need flowers, at least not the kind that are triple the price because it's February. Big fan of a few gerber daisies that he picked up at the grocery store on his way home.

I do have a few wishes for gifts this year, though. Instead of trying to find that schoolgirl outfit, I'll just tell the world here and hope...

1. Stop drinking my pomegranate seltzer. Specifically the LAST pomegranate seltzer without replacing or informing me you did such a thing.

2. Wipe your pee from the front of the toilet. Wipe the pee from your son's misses, too. I'm SO OVER that job.

3. Work on rolling your r's. Rrrrrrrrrrrr. RRRRRRRR. Get that tongue in shape.

4. Fold the laundry. Or just the socks. Or just throw the socks in a drawer without folding them because I'm drowning in fucking socks.

5. A Snicker's bar.

That's not too much to ask, now is it? Crossing fingers, legs and toes my wishes come true! Well, maybe not the legs ;)

All I need

Found these just now, as I was going to bed.

They're from my 5 year old. Well, I'm assuming because the Little Kiss can't quite cut with scissors yet.

This kid has always known how to get to me.

He frustrates me, woos me, entertains me, loves me.

Tonight he melted me. Again.

Little turd.

Monday Funday

There is so much shit going on, I don't even know where to begin.

The best part is, I'm not sad or sick or mad or whatever, just busy. Living life, working, being a mom, wife and friend...you know, that shit you do when you just do it?

Yah.

That!

Not to mention, I'm exhausted today. For a super reason, but damn, I feel like dying. I took a costanza nap today - from 12.30 to 1.15 - locked the door, lights off, under my desk. That would have been This Kid. 

WHY was I up so late? Watching the Packers win the Super Bowl, silly.  All by myself. Well, I let the boys watch the first quarter with me, but then drugged them and watched the rest all alone. Pure Bliss. I may have cried at the end. Whatever, I felt my sconnie pride. Plus? Mr. Kiss called me and all the Grown Men were crying, too.  It seems everyone becomes an emo pussy when their team wins the big game.  I'm OK with it.

p.s. I'm not moving to Texas. Fuck the French.

p.p.s. My girl A was asked by a store clerk where she gets her hair cut and how long did it take to grow it out? It's a fucking wig, she replied, but thanks!

p.p.p.s. I'm watching Despicable Me and sorta want the soundtrack.

FFO 2-4-11

Let's be direct here.



...january

...hangnails

...furrowed brows

...snice*

...my momma being hundreds of miles away from me on her birthday

...overpaid asshole human resources morons who fuck up offer letters

...depression

...the color yellow


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*snow/ice, which is a motherfucker.