2:00 a.m. Woke up to three screaming children. Unsure of cause. Fed bottle. Went back to sleep
8:00 a.m. Have struggled with 1 jealous toddler, 2 fussy trips, and 1 wolverine (trip #3) for an hour. Made appointment for everyone to visit pediatrician at 3:00 p.m.
9:30 a.m. Toddler bites triplet ("I didn't mean to!" -- my butt). Triplet cries for 10 minutes. Bitten finger quite red. Remaining triplets take up wailing. Fed bottles, put down for nap. Toddler in indefinite time-out.
11:00 a.m. Everyone awake. Everyone gets lunch. Naps all around by Noon.
12:05 p.m. No one is napping.
1:00 p.m. Toddler and wolverine napping. Thing one and thing two must be held constantly or wailing ensues.
2:30 p.m. The wolverine awakens just in time for the Dr. appointment. Decide to only take Thing 1 (who is actively pulling on ear), leaving Thing 2 and Toddler with the nanny.
3:00 p.m. Arrive at Pediatrician.
3:30 p.m. Get in room
3:30 - 4:00 p.m. Experience purgatory as wolverine loses his mind and determines to take Thing one and Me with him.
4:00 p.m. Dr. diagnoses double ear infections in both. I assure him Thing 2 needs the same medicine, as he has insisted on being held all day and cried very easily (at least when bitten). Dr. concedes as I'm looking a bit rough around the edges and am not to be trifled with.
5:00 p.m. Return home with sleeping children.
5:05 p.m. Accidentally wake them both while disentangling them from car seat.
5:30 p.m. Feed them healthy dinner of Captain D's fish and cheerios.
6:00 p.m. Administer antibiotics, pain medicine and narcotic cough syrup. Bottles and bedtime follow.
7:00 p.m. Consider drinking heavily. Decide head hurts too bad already.
7:05 p.m. Finish remaining dregs of Ben and Jerry's "Cherry Garcia". Do dishes. Tidy up (minimally). Get attacked by scary monster (In spooky voice, "I comin' a get you, mommy). Attack suddenly morphs into big hug and spontaneous, "I WUV you, mommy. I not scary." Settle in to stare at television with husband and toddler.
8:00 p.m. Ask toddler to consider bed-time. "Not yet, mommy. Not today." Continue to encourage toddler to feel sleepy for next half hour.
8:30 p.m. Begin bed-time ritual in earnest. "I bwush my teef. Don' touch me!" "I go potty. NO! Pwease don' touch me, Mommy!" Read Goodnight Moon twice. Let toddler read it to me once. Make shadow puppets with his Shrek flashlight. Talk about the day. Sing "Itsy Bitsy Spider" three times with complete hand gestures. Finally, leave him in his room...possibly about to go to sleep. Possibly about to get up and play with his trains as soon as I'm out of earshot.
9:15 Here, sharing with you all he pleasures of raising 4 little boys. Some say, "I'm so glad it's you, not me." Even on days like this, I'm glad it's me, too.
9:45 Thing 1's coughing fit, scares Thing 2 who cries hysterically. Wolverine sleeps on. Toddler singing to himself. Mommy calls it a day.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
All the Gory Details -- One Last Tidbit
One thing I forgot to mention...When you're going through infertility as a couple, you get a lot of well-meaning but otherwise stupid advice. Things like "Relax, it'll happen when you least expect it." *No, actually, it never did* And my personal favorite, "You know you'll get pregnant the minute you start the adoption process." *As a matter of fact, no I did not*
But perhaps the most disconcerting thing is the general need people have to lay blame at the door of one partner or another...as if they'll be able to fix everything for you if they just know which one has the problem. In point of fact, infertility issues lie exclusively at the woman's door 25% of the time, at the man's 25% and the other 50%of the time it's a combination of both people having trouble with one thing or another.
In our particular case, it was me, me, all about me. I simply never ovulated on my own, or when I did the eggs were "immature" -- meaning not capable of sustaining a viable pregnancy. I was always very up front about this, particularly with friends and family (one of whom responded, "Oh! So it's your fault." If you're ever in a similar situation, DO NOT say anything remotely as insensitive). For the oddball acquaintance who asked such an impertinent question, I just perfected a withering stare and left them to wonder.
What I didn't realize until much later is that my sweet husband, because he loves me and wanted to at least deflect some of the heat, told everyone that would listen that half the "blame" could be laid at his doorstep. He even had my best friend convinced. I don't know if anyone who hasn't been in this situation can appreciate how much that meant to me at the time, and even now so long after the fact. But trust me, he could be a real jerk for a LOT of years before he burns up all the credit he has with me.
But perhaps the most disconcerting thing is the general need people have to lay blame at the door of one partner or another...as if they'll be able to fix everything for you if they just know which one has the problem. In point of fact, infertility issues lie exclusively at the woman's door 25% of the time, at the man's 25% and the other 50%of the time it's a combination of both people having trouble with one thing or another.
In our particular case, it was me, me, all about me. I simply never ovulated on my own, or when I did the eggs were "immature" -- meaning not capable of sustaining a viable pregnancy. I was always very up front about this, particularly with friends and family (one of whom responded, "Oh! So it's your fault." If you're ever in a similar situation, DO NOT say anything remotely as insensitive). For the oddball acquaintance who asked such an impertinent question, I just perfected a withering stare and left them to wonder.
What I didn't realize until much later is that my sweet husband, because he loves me and wanted to at least deflect some of the heat, told everyone that would listen that half the "blame" could be laid at his doorstep. He even had my best friend convinced. I don't know if anyone who hasn't been in this situation can appreciate how much that meant to me at the time, and even now so long after the fact. But trust me, he could be a real jerk for a LOT of years before he burns up all the credit he has with me.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
All the Gory Details
Today, children, we will be discussing how I got all these children...children who have left me with unsightly stretch marks, a permanent "is she pregnant or not?" belly, and who are leaching brain cells from me with every passing day. All this craziness might make you wonder if I regret all we've been through, and the answer is a resounding NO!!! I'd do it all again in a heartbeat!!! I'm posting all the gory details for those of you who visit this site hoping to find out more about what to expect on your own paths to infertility treatment, and have (up to this point at least) received a big, fat eyeful of nothing. Those of you who don't have infertility issues need not read beyond this point. O.k. and those of you still reading out of morbid curiosity...GOTCHA!
For those of you who don't know us personally, my #1 sweetie and I met in high school and married just after I turned 20. We had lots of stuff we wanted to accomplish together and individually, and really did not reach a place where we thought children would be welcome addition for about 7 years. I was still relatively young, and we didn't anticipate any problems. Do we ever? We began trying, and when it didn't happen in the first few months, I started taking my temperature and tracking my cycle. I could tell something wasn't quite right, as the signs for ovulation were murky, at best. We soldiered on, and just before the one-year mark, found out we were pregnant. We were elated! Unfortunately, four days later, we miscarried. Just saying, "it was a difficult time" is really insufficient to describe that kind of hurt and the fear it brings with it. This was the first time I thought, "This might not happen for us."
After that, I marched straight into my OB's office and demanded an infertility consult. There were a lot of empty words thrown at me "still young, only one year, relax and be patient." I rejected them all, waving my little cycle tracking cards wildly. Finally they conceded that I might know what I was talking about, and we began clomid.
For those of you unsure of what clomid is, I like to call it the P-pill. P stands for period, pregnant, and pre-menopausal because you get to experience all the symptoms of all three states AT THE EXACT SAME TIME!!! For those of you who have not experienced them, hot flashes are a real bitch. Anyway, clomid works on the part of your brain that affects hormone production. It's supposed to make your brain produce more of the hormones that make you ovulate. In order to regulate my cycles, they had to keep upping the doses higher and higher, until I was on just over 5 times the start dose. For those of you about to start clomid, this may not be the case for you. Most people just take a low dose and it works great. The symptoms are also GREATLY reduced at lower doses.
For a while, they just patted me on the back and told me how great things were going. I disagreed, mainly because I still wasn't PREGNANT, and insisted on additional testing. Lo and behold, the clomid was indeed not working, and we moved on to injectibles.
Injectibles are different from clomid in that they act directly on the ovaries. They're supposed to make you produce a lot of eggs so you increase your chances of getting pregnant. They don't have the side-effects that clomid does, but the fact that I was injecting myself in the stomach each night for almost two weeks sort of served as it's own special drawback. We also started intra-uterine insemination -- the reasoning being that the injectibles were really expensive and difficult, so let's give it the best chance possible by cutting out the middle man (sorry about that, honey).
It's too late to make a long story short, but our first round of injectibles didn't work. I then took some time off to just get back to feeling normal, then resumed the process with an exploratory laproscopic procedure just to make sure everything was hunky dory in there. After that, one more round of injectibles (at double the previous dose) resulted in the ever fabulous Jack.
When Jack was almost a year old, we decided to try again. We did one round of exactly the same meds as before, and BOOM this time we got triplets. Go figure.
So that's our experience in a nutshell. We didn't do IVF, although there is a link to an IVF website to the right of this post. It's there because that's where I found a great system of support while carrying multiples. It's pretty easy to find other mothers carrying twins, but once you up the ante by one measly baby it gets a little more difficult to find someone in your same situation. LOVE, love, love the internet.
Anyone about to enter this maelstrom, please feel free to contact me. Obviously, I'm a guarded and secretive person, but I'll make an exception and share even more details if you need them.
For those of you who don't know us personally, my #1 sweetie and I met in high school and married just after I turned 20. We had lots of stuff we wanted to accomplish together and individually, and really did not reach a place where we thought children would be welcome addition for about 7 years. I was still relatively young, and we didn't anticipate any problems. Do we ever? We began trying, and when it didn't happen in the first few months, I started taking my temperature and tracking my cycle. I could tell something wasn't quite right, as the signs for ovulation were murky, at best. We soldiered on, and just before the one-year mark, found out we were pregnant. We were elated! Unfortunately, four days later, we miscarried. Just saying, "it was a difficult time" is really insufficient to describe that kind of hurt and the fear it brings with it. This was the first time I thought, "This might not happen for us."
After that, I marched straight into my OB's office and demanded an infertility consult. There were a lot of empty words thrown at me "still young, only one year, relax and be patient." I rejected them all, waving my little cycle tracking cards wildly. Finally they conceded that I might know what I was talking about, and we began clomid.
For those of you unsure of what clomid is, I like to call it the P-pill. P stands for period, pregnant, and pre-menopausal because you get to experience all the symptoms of all three states AT THE EXACT SAME TIME!!! For those of you who have not experienced them, hot flashes are a real bitch. Anyway, clomid works on the part of your brain that affects hormone production. It's supposed to make your brain produce more of the hormones that make you ovulate. In order to regulate my cycles, they had to keep upping the doses higher and higher, until I was on just over 5 times the start dose. For those of you about to start clomid, this may not be the case for you. Most people just take a low dose and it works great. The symptoms are also GREATLY reduced at lower doses.
For a while, they just patted me on the back and told me how great things were going. I disagreed, mainly because I still wasn't PREGNANT, and insisted on additional testing. Lo and behold, the clomid was indeed not working, and we moved on to injectibles.
Injectibles are different from clomid in that they act directly on the ovaries. They're supposed to make you produce a lot of eggs so you increase your chances of getting pregnant. They don't have the side-effects that clomid does, but the fact that I was injecting myself in the stomach each night for almost two weeks sort of served as it's own special drawback. We also started intra-uterine insemination -- the reasoning being that the injectibles were really expensive and difficult, so let's give it the best chance possible by cutting out the middle man (sorry about that, honey).
It's too late to make a long story short, but our first round of injectibles didn't work. I then took some time off to just get back to feeling normal, then resumed the process with an exploratory laproscopic procedure just to make sure everything was hunky dory in there. After that, one more round of injectibles (at double the previous dose) resulted in the ever fabulous Jack.
When Jack was almost a year old, we decided to try again. We did one round of exactly the same meds as before, and BOOM this time we got triplets. Go figure.
So that's our experience in a nutshell. We didn't do IVF, although there is a link to an IVF website to the right of this post. It's there because that's where I found a great system of support while carrying multiples. It's pretty easy to find other mothers carrying twins, but once you up the ante by one measly baby it gets a little more difficult to find someone in your same situation. LOVE, love, love the internet.
Anyone about to enter this maelstrom, please feel free to contact me. Obviously, I'm a guarded and secretive person, but I'll make an exception and share even more details if you need them.
Monday, July 23, 2007
How Bad Can It Be?
So...today I was so tired that I really might have cried a few times if I could have found the time. Instead, I was just snarky and incredibly difficult to be around. It all got better, though, after we decided to let all four boys bathe at the same time. It's hard to be grouchy during a splash fight. I snapped this picture of Jack and Sam having a major giggle fest as they try to out-splash each other while Will and Tom gaze adoringly at their own reflections (who wouldn't?). It even made later events (including, but not limited to finger painting mom's bedsheets with poop) a little easier to handle.
Friday, July 20, 2007
My New Favorite Recipe
Last night, I was a good mama in that I actually cooked for my brood. A lovely human being who blogs as Ann Glamore shared a really easy and delicious recipe that I planned to serve to my precious husband -- a small thanks for being the best husband ever. What I did NOT expect was that my little boys would shove the corn cakes down just as fast as I could make them. So I thought I'd provide a link for all you busy mamas (and daddies, too) who think your whole family might just up and die if they have to eat take-out pizza one more time. My one addition would be to use the Mojo Rotisserie Chicken from Publix. Consider that little tidbit my Martha Stewart moment.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Rise and Shine!
The scene: Dawn breaks. I lie burrowed under the covers happily oblivious to the world. The pitter patter of little feet coming down the hall rouses me to a groggy dream state where I think I've possibly forgotten a math test, but can't quite get my eyes open enough to worry about it. A knee to my kidney brings me fully awake, and a tiny mouth is pressed to my ear. It whispers, "It's not dark mommy."
I beg to differ. I don't care when dawn technically is, unless the clock reads 7 a.m. it is DARK!! I give in, and grab my oldest monkey for a quick snuggle. The monkey pulls away and points to his stomach. "I hun-ry mommy. I need-a eat. Wet's go to da kitchen."
Me (now standing groggily in kitchen): Jack, what do you want to eat for breakfast?
Jack: No, Mommy! No!
Me: What? I just asked what you want for breakfast!
Jack: No, Mommy! I not wanna eat it!
Me: Aren't you hungry?
Jack: Uh-huh. I hun-ry.
Me: Do you want a cereal bar?
Jack: Nope. No cereal bar.
Me: Do you want some Captain Crunch?
Jack: Nope. No Crunchy Munch.
Me: How about a banana?
Jack: Nope. No 'nana. I wanna wook up deah (indicating cabinet)
Me (lifting Jack to look in cabinet): What do you want in here?
Jack: I want dat! (repeat several times pointing at canned green beans/tomatoes/spinach, etc. and more often than not -- gummy treats)
Me: No. That's not breakfast food. What do you want for breakfast?
Jack: Dat! (indicating the previously rejected cereal bar)
Me: Fine. Sit down and I'll open it for you.
Jack: (screaming, writhing and throwing my back into spasms) NO!! I don' wanna sit down! No, Mommy! No!!
Me: You have to sit down or you can't eat your cereal bar.
Jack: I don' wike it ceweal bar. I want Crunchy Munch.
Me: Fine. Sit down and I'll pour you a bowl.
Jack: (screaming, writhing and throwing my back into spasms. Picking up a pattern?) NO!! I don' wanna sit down! No, Mommy! No!!
Me: You have to sit down or you can't eat your Crunchy Munch.
Jack: I don' wike it Crunchy Munch. I want 'nana.
I'll spare you the rest of the details, but the result is almost always a screaming, running, stomping, throwing-himself-down tantrum that results in waking the trips from their slumber well before 7 a.m.
I'll tell you a secret...sometimes he gets gummies.
I beg to differ. I don't care when dawn technically is, unless the clock reads 7 a.m. it is DARK!! I give in, and grab my oldest monkey for a quick snuggle. The monkey pulls away and points to his stomach. "I hun-ry mommy. I need-a eat. Wet's go to da kitchen."
Me (now standing groggily in kitchen): Jack, what do you want to eat for breakfast?
Jack: No, Mommy! No!
Me: What? I just asked what you want for breakfast!
Jack: No, Mommy! I not wanna eat it!
Me: Aren't you hungry?
Jack: Uh-huh. I hun-ry.
Me: Do you want a cereal bar?
Jack: Nope. No cereal bar.
Me: Do you want some Captain Crunch?
Jack: Nope. No Crunchy Munch.
Me: How about a banana?
Jack: Nope. No 'nana. I wanna wook up deah (indicating cabinet)
Me (lifting Jack to look in cabinet): What do you want in here?
Jack: I want dat! (repeat several times pointing at canned green beans/tomatoes/spinach, etc. and more often than not -- gummy treats)
Me: No. That's not breakfast food. What do you want for breakfast?
Jack: Dat! (indicating the previously rejected cereal bar)
Me: Fine. Sit down and I'll open it for you.
Jack: (screaming, writhing and throwing my back into spasms) NO!! I don' wanna sit down! No, Mommy! No!!
Me: You have to sit down or you can't eat your cereal bar.
Jack: I don' wike it ceweal bar. I want Crunchy Munch.
Me: Fine. Sit down and I'll pour you a bowl.
Jack: (screaming, writhing and throwing my back into spasms. Picking up a pattern?) NO!! I don' wanna sit down! No, Mommy! No!!
Me: You have to sit down or you can't eat your Crunchy Munch.
Jack: I don' wike it Crunchy Munch. I want 'nana.
I'll spare you the rest of the details, but the result is almost always a screaming, running, stomping, throwing-himself-down tantrum that results in waking the trips from their slumber well before 7 a.m.
I'll tell you a secret...sometimes he gets gummies.
Monday, July 16, 2007
I've Got Your Shiny Sink Right Here!
There's an evil, insidious movement out there that I feel I should warn you all about. It's called flylady.com and is designed to make you feel inferior for your nasty, untidy ways. You know, those worthless urges you have to spend time bonding with your spouse and children rather than cleaning something. Honestly, it's right after Martha Stewart's own black, sticky heart.
The basic premise is you should keep your kitchen sink shiny, and that bastion of loveliness will guilt you into keeping everything else around it clean. You're supposed to ask yourself throughout the day, "Is my sink shining?" Sort of like the Chinese had to ask themselves, "Where the !@#$# is my red book?" during the cultural revolution. Of course the Chinese could be punished by death for any infraction. Flylady merely implies that you will suffer intense mocking and jeering by your peers and/or close relations.
I urge you to go immediately to your kitchen, lick a spoon, and leave it in your sink overnight. You could follow my stellar example and leave most of your pots and pans from dinner so they can "soak". And by soak, I mean sit there until someone else gets disgusted and does them for you. Fight the power my friends. It's a slippery slope, and before you know it, you're making festive fall place settings from an old shoe and some compost. Organic from your own garden, of course.
The basic premise is you should keep your kitchen sink shiny, and that bastion of loveliness will guilt you into keeping everything else around it clean. You're supposed to ask yourself throughout the day, "Is my sink shining?" Sort of like the Chinese had to ask themselves, "Where the !@#$# is my red book?" during the cultural revolution. Of course the Chinese could be punished by death for any infraction. Flylady merely implies that you will suffer intense mocking and jeering by your peers and/or close relations.
I urge you to go immediately to your kitchen, lick a spoon, and leave it in your sink overnight. You could follow my stellar example and leave most of your pots and pans from dinner so they can "soak". And by soak, I mean sit there until someone else gets disgusted and does them for you. Fight the power my friends. It's a slippery slope, and before you know it, you're making festive fall place settings from an old shoe and some compost. Organic from your own garden, of course.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Burrus Update
O.k. so here's the skinny on my life and lives of my children since the last post. Thursday, Jack got his neurology consult. All is well in his head. The doctor just gave us a prescription for dissolvable Klonipin to use as needed when he starts running a fever. Long story short, we'll dope him up with this stuff (which is like a longer acting Valium) for the first 24 hours, and that should help us head off another seizure.
Friday morning, Jack had tubes placed in both ears. Everything went fine. Apparently, it takes all of 3 minutes to place a set of tubes because our butts didn't even have time to warm up the seats in the waiting room before we were being escorted back to the recovery area. Thankfully, we were the only ones there, because Jack pitched the MOTHER of all hissy fits for about 30 minutes as he was getting over the anesthesia. Once we got home he was back to his usual self -- pitching smaller, more manageable hissy fits for no apparent reason.
The little boys went Tuesday for their 9 mos. shot. Only one shot each and Tom did not cry AT ALL! How tough is he? The other guys only cried for about 2 seconds, so they're pretty tough, too. And I really appreciate how great they are because there are too freakin' many of them to deal with a drama queen in the bunch. Will is 19 lbs. Sam is 20+ and Tom is 25.5 lbs. They are all big beautiful boys and everyone is right on target for everything. Now, they've all suddenly come down with runny noses and itchy eyes, so they're taking lots of Dimetapp, and we're hoping it passes quickly.
As for me, I am tired and stressed, but things are better now that the Dr. visits are over and done for a while. I keep checking my medicine cabinet hoping to find that "Happy Pills" have magically appeared overnight. All I've come up with so far are a handful of Excedrin and a tube of Tucks Medicated Cream. If you see the Medicine Cabinet Fairy, punch her in the face for me.
Friday morning, Jack had tubes placed in both ears. Everything went fine. Apparently, it takes all of 3 minutes to place a set of tubes because our butts didn't even have time to warm up the seats in the waiting room before we were being escorted back to the recovery area. Thankfully, we were the only ones there, because Jack pitched the MOTHER of all hissy fits for about 30 minutes as he was getting over the anesthesia. Once we got home he was back to his usual self -- pitching smaller, more manageable hissy fits for no apparent reason.
The little boys went Tuesday for their 9 mos. shot. Only one shot each and Tom did not cry AT ALL! How tough is he? The other guys only cried for about 2 seconds, so they're pretty tough, too. And I really appreciate how great they are because there are too freakin' many of them to deal with a drama queen in the bunch. Will is 19 lbs. Sam is 20+ and Tom is 25.5 lbs. They are all big beautiful boys and everyone is right on target for everything. Now, they've all suddenly come down with runny noses and itchy eyes, so they're taking lots of Dimetapp, and we're hoping it passes quickly.
As for me, I am tired and stressed, but things are better now that the Dr. visits are over and done for a while. I keep checking my medicine cabinet hoping to find that "Happy Pills" have magically appeared overnight. All I've come up with so far are a handful of Excedrin and a tube of Tucks Medicated Cream. If you see the Medicine Cabinet Fairy, punch her in the face for me.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
I Love Lynsey Smith -- The Sequel
Lynsey was kind enough to share some of the photos from our session so I could post them here. Don't forget to visit her site and book your own session before she becomes so famous she's too busy for you. I guess I should point out that I'm only sharing this info because we had such a terrific experience. This is not a paid advertisement, yadda, yadda, yadda.
These are some of our favorites from the day's shoot. Just click to view them larger (a must to fully appreciate how beautiful my children are). Can I just stress how nearly impossible it is to get a family of six in a photo without at least one person looking clinically insane? Lynsey made it look and feel easy. Thanks again!!!
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Would Ya Look At That?
I've been trying for ages to figure out how to enable people to subscribe to my blog. This would allow you to be automatically notified when I've made an update -- although I do realize that the constant checking for new posts helps you to avoid unwanted tasks like housework or work-work. But for those of you who might like a little reminder, just click on Subscribe: Posts (Atom) at the very bottom of the beige area (just scroll all the way down and you'll see the link). Hope this simplifies your life!!
The Sweet Life
I love dessert (Click here to find out just how much I loved it when I was pregnant). Even now, I plan what I order in restaurants so I'll be sure to have enough room for some cake or pie. I've been known to drop hints prior to family gatherings just so my favorites sweets will be present. And an open box of Oreo Cookies in my house is an empty box of Oreo Cookies within 24 hours -- guaranteed. I am truly becoming my mother.
Case in point...when I was in high school my mother would buy us each a candy bar every Saturday when she did the grocery shopping. If she didn't knock hers out in the car, you could bet it would be gone by late afternoon without fail. I, on the other hand reveling in my own willpower, would opt to save mine. I'd place it in the cabinet and give myself something to look forward to in the week to come -- Wednesday was a great day for a chocolate pick me up.
It was a good plan, and worked fine for a while. But then a strange thing happened...my candy began disappearing from its hiding place! At first I didn't catch on. "You ate it and just forgot," I'd tell myself. After weeks of doubting my own sanity, I began to suspect someone else had a hand in the Great Candy Bar Caper and initially placed blame on my dad. At 6'4" and just shy of 300 pounds, he appeared to be a likely candy receptacle. But he adamantly denied it. And I had to admit it was darn near impossible for a man of his size to sneak anywhere. Plus, he would be much more likely to eat it right in front of me for spite. So I had to cast my net outward. Who did I know that fit the bill of both Master Thief and Candy Fiend? Of course! How could I have missed it for so long! My MOTHER!!!
At 5'5", this twitchy little woman barely tipped the scales over 120 -- despite the fact that she consumed roughly that same weight in sugar on a daily basis. It's an endless source of ire that in the great genetic crap shoot, I had the chance of being a tall, thin supermodel with lovely olive skin. Instead, I gain weight if I think about food too often, have the cholesterol level of an actual tub of lard, and without the right makeup, I virtually glow in the dark. All that AND the woman steals my chocolate??? I had been betrayed! Double-crossed!! Cheated!!! And I was bound to catch her in the act.
And so I laid my trap. I specifically requested a Hershey's Chocolate Bar with Almonds (her favorite) and waited until after Saturdays' lunch. "Gosh, I just couldn't eat another bite. I guess I'll just save my candy bar for later." I made a great show of placing it in its usual spot in the cupboard. "Maybe I'll go finish reading that book for English class then take a nap." With much yawning and stretching, I stomped loudly up the stairs.
The instant I reached my room, I tried to breathe shallowly -- all the better to hear the goings on down below. I heard dishes rattle in the sink, water running so they could soak until after dinner, then the tell-tale squeak (open) and thud (closed) of the cabinet door. That was rapidly followed by the slap/shush sound of my mom's house shoes as she scurried down the hall into her bedroom at the foot of the stairs. Then...nothing. Did I hear a wrapper crackle or was my brain overheating from listening so intently for so long? Barely breathing, I crept down the stairs keeping my feet close to the wall to avoid any creaks. Her door was ajar. I tiptoed close enough to see she was sitting on her bed, then BOOM I threw open the door.
"Ooh!" she mumble-screamed around a mouthful of chocolate. "You scared me!" She looked like a three year old caught with her hand in the cookie jar. I raised an eyebrow and crossed my arms, "That's not my candy bar is it?" I asked sarcastically. She had the good grace to look sheepish for a moment, but it quickly gave way to a wicked grin. "Yes," she replied. "But I did it for your own good."
So attention world at large. Yes, I bought the last bottle of Hershey's Syrup on the shelf. I hoard every carton of Ben and Jerry's Vermonty Python flavor I can find. And I will not hesitate to take the last slice of Lemon Ice Box pie at the church social. But don't hate me because I'm a sugar glutton with no self-control. Think of it this way. If I didn't eat it, then you might have to. And wouldn't that just play havoc with your diet? Really, I'm only thinking of you. It's for your own good.
Case in point...when I was in high school my mother would buy us each a candy bar every Saturday when she did the grocery shopping. If she didn't knock hers out in the car, you could bet it would be gone by late afternoon without fail. I, on the other hand reveling in my own willpower, would opt to save mine. I'd place it in the cabinet and give myself something to look forward to in the week to come -- Wednesday was a great day for a chocolate pick me up.
It was a good plan, and worked fine for a while. But then a strange thing happened...my candy began disappearing from its hiding place! At first I didn't catch on. "You ate it and just forgot," I'd tell myself. After weeks of doubting my own sanity, I began to suspect someone else had a hand in the Great Candy Bar Caper and initially placed blame on my dad. At 6'4" and just shy of 300 pounds, he appeared to be a likely candy receptacle. But he adamantly denied it. And I had to admit it was darn near impossible for a man of his size to sneak anywhere. Plus, he would be much more likely to eat it right in front of me for spite. So I had to cast my net outward. Who did I know that fit the bill of both Master Thief and Candy Fiend? Of course! How could I have missed it for so long! My MOTHER!!!
At 5'5", this twitchy little woman barely tipped the scales over 120 -- despite the fact that she consumed roughly that same weight in sugar on a daily basis. It's an endless source of ire that in the great genetic crap shoot, I had the chance of being a tall, thin supermodel with lovely olive skin. Instead, I gain weight if I think about food too often, have the cholesterol level of an actual tub of lard, and without the right makeup, I virtually glow in the dark. All that AND the woman steals my chocolate??? I had been betrayed! Double-crossed!! Cheated!!! And I was bound to catch her in the act.
And so I laid my trap. I specifically requested a Hershey's Chocolate Bar with Almonds (her favorite) and waited until after Saturdays' lunch. "Gosh, I just couldn't eat another bite. I guess I'll just save my candy bar for later." I made a great show of placing it in its usual spot in the cupboard. "Maybe I'll go finish reading that book for English class then take a nap." With much yawning and stretching, I stomped loudly up the stairs.
The instant I reached my room, I tried to breathe shallowly -- all the better to hear the goings on down below. I heard dishes rattle in the sink, water running so they could soak until after dinner, then the tell-tale squeak (open) and thud (closed) of the cabinet door. That was rapidly followed by the slap/shush sound of my mom's house shoes as she scurried down the hall into her bedroom at the foot of the stairs. Then...nothing. Did I hear a wrapper crackle or was my brain overheating from listening so intently for so long? Barely breathing, I crept down the stairs keeping my feet close to the wall to avoid any creaks. Her door was ajar. I tiptoed close enough to see she was sitting on her bed, then BOOM I threw open the door.
"Ooh!" she mumble-screamed around a mouthful of chocolate. "You scared me!" She looked like a three year old caught with her hand in the cookie jar. I raised an eyebrow and crossed my arms, "That's not my candy bar is it?" I asked sarcastically. She had the good grace to look sheepish for a moment, but it quickly gave way to a wicked grin. "Yes," she replied. "But I did it for your own good."
So attention world at large. Yes, I bought the last bottle of Hershey's Syrup on the shelf. I hoard every carton of Ben and Jerry's Vermonty Python flavor I can find. And I will not hesitate to take the last slice of Lemon Ice Box pie at the church social. But don't hate me because I'm a sugar glutton with no self-control. Think of it this way. If I didn't eat it, then you might have to. And wouldn't that just play havoc with your diet? Really, I'm only thinking of you. It's for your own good.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
