Halloween in Three Parts.

Act One:

Partying it up with some friends. Chose a family theme. Started with Alex as our bag lady (please notice the shopping cart... and fingerless gloves). Paul and I are homeless. And then we have our cat. ...Er.... Lion. (All the cat costumes were a bit too feline for my liking.) Upon arrival, first person who sees us says, "Oh good! You didn't dress up either!" Fail. Second person says, "No! They dressed up! They are Winter People!" Fail. I decided to rethink our costumes for the big day.

Act Two:

Buy tiger costume on sale. Also purchase huge bag of candy. Eat lots of the candy before nightfall (there is a reason I don't buy the candy till the day of). Have a wonderful time walking around the block with the kiddies. Night was saved by our wonderful neighbors and their wonderful wagon. Which I am now coveting.

Act Three:

Oldest must have been tuckered out. Fell asleep mid-paci-hunt. There is a reason we check on her before we go to bed. Surprisingly enough, this is NOT the first time we have found her under her bed.

Did you hear that? That's what CHANGE sounds like.

Not pocket change. I have none of that. (I am definitly one of those people who uses a debit card to pay $1.50 for a pop. Sue me. Also one of those people that uses the free address stickers I get from charities without donating anything.... aren't I awful??)

What I have are big BIG changes. Changes that, had this happened 10 years ago, I would have had to write several letters with PAPER and PENS and send them out in ENVELOPES after I LICKED A STAMP.

Well, maybe the first change isn't so large. I got my hair cut. And really, all that means is that I have more in my face when it's in a ponytail. See, look. (Ignore the large bags under my eyes. Those are standard. As is the absence of my glasses. Because I usually don't remember that I wear them until I realize sometime during the afternoon that it shouldn't be so hard to read my child her books.)

The second change is a bit bigger.

This is where I would tell my poor father to take a seat had I not already told him the news.

If you actually know me or have been following me since I was on Xanga, you may remember that when Paul and I first got married, he was living in England. Six days after we married, we got on a plane and started our life together. It was a bumpy transition for the both of us, but we made it work. After a year, we moved back to the states to start our new life (and our family) together. Well....

Come July, we will be headed back over the pond. After a lot of back and forth, we decided that that was the route our lives were headed, and it wasn't long before the deal was final. We will be there for three years, and then who knows where after that (I am still holding out for the Denver area, though).

Initial thought.... CURRY!

Second thought... 8 HOUR PLANE RIDE WITH A ONE YEAR OLD AND A TWO YEAR OLD!

I am encouraged that the percentage of freak-out versus excitement is about 20/80 right now, so that's good. There is just so much to do between now and then, it's overwhelming. Especially since Paul's deployment is looming over our heads. But I am excited. We are all.... excited.

Things are changing. Aaaaaaagaiiiiiin.

DNA

I have an actual post that has been put on hold for a bit, but I just had to share this picture. Initially, I thought that it was one of those that would get deleted right away (because of the magnificance that IS digital photography that allows me to take 10 pictures in the hopes of getting one where all the fingers are out of noses and at least one eye is open on all involved). But... the resemblence between Paul and Eli is uncanny here, and it makes me laugh. Eli has that, "COME ON MOM JUST TAKE THE PICTURE" look down PAT.

Unnecessary Organs. Who knew there were such things?

So, you would think that our bodies are pretty put-together, right? Like we have everything we need, and lack anything that would just get in the way. We have ten fingers because that's how many we need. 11 would just be showing off. Only two eyes because if parents actually saw everything, childhood wouldn't be nearly as fun. We have a liver to... uhm... process alcohol? And an esaphagus because that would just be weird if our stomachs were right up there in our necks.

So it's weird to me that there are organs in our bodies that are so unnecessary that they can be completely removed without any dire consequences.

First, let me apologize to my mother. Because I know what it's like to grow a human. It's hard. It's nine long months getting fatter, heartburn, and general crappiness. You grew me from scratch, and here I am, just tossing organs away like they were scrap. So sorry. I'll make it up to you.

Oh, sorry. Did I forget to give a little backstory? Let me rewind just a little.

A few weeks ago I was sitting downstairs with Alex, minding my own business, enjoying an episode of Wonder Pets (who are awesome, and they save everyone). I started to have some uncomfortable pains in my chest, which soon spread to my back. To be short, it felt like someone had taken a hold of my rib cage and was trying to forcibly remove it from my body. Not comfortable. I squirmed a little, waiting for those darn animals to hurry up and save the day so I could put Alex to bed and lay down myself. It wasn't long before I had Paul come downstairs and start Alex's bedtime routine without me, as I tried to stretch and move and do anything I could to relieve the pain. I wasn't sure if I had stretched a muscle (just sitting there), or just had the worst gas pains imaginable. So I did what any rational person would do. I looked up my symptoms on WebMD. And do you know what I found out? I was having a heart attack. Now, I would like to say that I just laughed it off and then took some rolaids. I would like to say it. But... I was sold. I saw that women's heart attacks often differ from men's because they feel like really awful indigestion, and often lack the obvious chest pain that can accompany a man's heart attack. I saw that most women's heart attacks go untreated because they think they just have bad gas or don't have time to get looked at. And this wasn't helped when I called my insurance company and talked to a nurse who immediately told me to chew some aspirin and call an ambulance. I'm 25 and having a heart attack. But then, it could just be gas. I'm going to die, and all they are going to talk about is how I mistook a heart attack for a nasty byproduct of Mexican food. But really, it's probably just gas.

As the pain got worse, I became more paranoid that I was losing precious life-saving time by being stubborn. I felt silly then, and I feel even sillier now thinking back on it. I was convinced. There is a reason why you shouldn't self-diagnose.

Anyway, by 11, I was in alot of pain, and Paul convinced me to go up and just talk to someone at the ER. Which... thinking back on it, doctor's are probably not allowed to talk to you in the ER without you being admitted first. But, anyway, I went up there. I almost turned around several times because I was convinced they were going to tell me that I just really needed to fart and to stop bothering them. As I babbled on and on to the nurse at the front desk, a voice came from the back... "Sounds like a gallbladder. Send her back." And, let me tell you, that was the fastest diagnosis I have ever encountered. It ended up being exactly that. My poor little gallbladder was full of nasty little stones, and apparently the cure for that is to take the whole thing out.

During the following days, doctors were called, ultrasounds were taken, dates were set. I had to wait a week for the surgery to happen, which was unfortunate because if I had anything other than a plain salad, that nasty little rib-pulling pain would come back. And the constant nausea that had me peeing on several pregnancy tests wasn't fun either.

But it finally came, and Paul dropped me off bright and early that morning. I was going to be alone until Paul was able to drop the kids off at our babysitters later on that morning. Things went smoothly. I was checked in, got to get into that lovely little gown, swallowed some pills, got poked by some needles. I was nervous as the rolled me into the OR, which was quickly taken care of by a dose of what they called "I don't care" medicine. When they put it into my IV, they warned me that it might burn a little. It actually felt like someone had broken my wrist. It was an odd sensation, because I knew it hurt really badly, but all I could do was lift my arm and mumble something about it being broken now. And asking if everything on the ceiling was really moving. Which... I don't think it was. They gave me another dose of the loopy medicine, and this time my whole arm felt like it had been crushed. I mumbled again, and I heard the doctor say, "She's saying it feels like her arm is bro...." "Laura, you are in the recovery room. The surgery is over."

That's how quickly it went. Or at least it felt. The surgery lasted about an hour. I just have five little slits, ranging from just above my belly button to just under my rib cage. I am amazed that they have the technology to remove an organ without actually opening you up. Blows my mind.

I am a lightweight when it comes to drugs, so I was out of it for my entire stay at the hospital (which was only for a few hours after the surgery was over) and the rest of the day when I got home. I went straight back to my bed and slept off the anesthesia and the vicoden that was flowing through my system. Which, I don't know how long I've been wishing for a day when I could just stay in bed and sleep. There weren't the most ideal of circumstances though. Can I get a re-do?

It's only the day after, but I'm feeling better. I am really really sore. But the nausea is gone, and I can eat again. I'm pretty sure it's going to be worth it.

So, ya, sorry mom. Wish I could have kept it. You worked hard on that gallbladder. And I just tossed it away. Love you!