I don't know, maybe it's my training as a therapist, but I can't seem to answer basic questions well. Instead of offering concrete info, I tend to be...well, descriptive.

A billing person from the hospital just called to do some pre-registration paperwork over the phone. While I still have to go in next Friday for the complete work-up (blood work, medical history, etc), this was supposed to save me time.

(I also want to refer you to the blog entry I wrote after getting the chip in my window repair. That insurance agent had the misfortune of asking me what state I was in when the accident happened; I said, "Coherent." She said (after a very long pause), "No...Nevada?")

(Oooooh.)

This agent went through the basic questions like name as it appears on my driver's license, current address ("No, we've moved..."), insurance ID number, and then she says, "Marital status?"

To which I replied (after again, a long pause), "Happy?"

(Mind you, I was frantically scanning my brain for a better word while thinking, "Well, he doesn't cook, which is so annoying, and there have been some heated negotiations around division of labor in the home, and I was kind of a major nag there for awhile, but overall, I'd say we are happy. Content? Pleased? Maybe not vitalized or vivacious, but we do have a young son. And kids are a ton of work and can add stress to a household.")

Don't you wish you could see inside my head?

She, too, paused. And then said finally, "Aw. That's sweet. I'll put you down as 'married.'"

Argh! Curse you, MFT training!

"Fibroid" is totally the new f-word in our house.

Seriously, try it out. "What the fibriod?" "Are you fibroid-ing kidding me?" "The garbage men are such fibroid-ing idiots" and finally, Brian's favorite line while watching Packer games: "Where is the fibroid-ing defense? ARGH!"

Obviously I am joking, but it's interesting how one word can change your whole world (at least for a short time.) I do feel like fibroid has become a dirty word in this house for the last two years as it has caused complication after complication, especially in regards to my pregnancy with Scotty.

Probably what is most interesting is that fibroids are usually just harmless, benign growths that almost never interfere with pregnancy or childbirth. They are incredibly common - between 50-80% of women usually have at least one fibroid, and most will never know about it. The fibroid develops as a result of abnormal cell growth by the smooth uterine muscles and can attach outside the uterus, inside the wall of the uterus, or inside the uterus itself. Most fibroids require no treatment.

That is, unless you have the one-in-a-million fibroid, like myself. 

I should play the lotto.

(Wait, I live in Nevada. We don't have a state lottery. Maybe I should drag Scotty to the closest casino and put it all on black. Let it ride, baby!)

Anyways, we came to learn about my fibroid in the most uncommon way possible: through an ultrasound tech. They are usually a tight-lipped group, clearly well-versed in the "Don't look your patient in the eyes and never disclose any information to them" technique, but this u/s tech must have missed that day in class because she was chatty as all get-out.

It was January 2, 2009. I had known I was pregnant for all of five days (yet had managed to eat no less than three dinners of lasagna; I was taking this 'eating for two' thing very seriously.) On January 1st, I had unexplained heavy bleeding. By late afternoon on the 2nd, I was experiencing terrible cramps and pain in my lower right side. After a quick call to George (who was not yet George; he was still "Dr. P*******"), he recommended we go to the nearest emergency room to rule out the possibility of an ectopic pregnancy (which would require immediate surgery).

Upon exam, they told me I was still pregnant, but not sure "how" pregnant I was. I was then wheeled into a different room where I met Chatty Cathy, the ultrasound tech. She did a quick exam and said yes, I was definitely pregnant, as there was a sac, and she could also detect a cyst had ruptured due to fluid in my abdomen (and the reason for my pain.) She then said something I'll never forget, since it was so out-of-the-blue. She looked at me and then pointed to the screen and said, "You also have a fibroid. It's right there" [pointing.] "It's pretty big - like the size of a gumball. Don't let them overlook this, okay? And don't tell them I told you."

At the time, I had no idea what she was even talking about, let alone who "they" were.

By Monday, I had my first consult with George who ran some blood work and gave me the "no tilefish" lecture. (who eats tile fish??) It was such a blur and I was so anxious for the appointment that I didn't even think to bring up the fibroid until we were already out of the exam room and standing by the nurse's desk. "What about that fibroid?" I shouted to his turned back, as he grabbed another chart and was about to walk into a room. He turned around and looked at Brian and I and said, "Not a problem. We'll keep an eye on it." And then he disappeared.

Okay-dokey.

So for the next few months, I lived my life without thought of the fibroid. Emma had just been diagnosed with cancer, my sister was also pregnant, and I was trying to figure out how to taper down my practice (and cover my burgeoning bump) at the same time. At our 18 week "big" ultrasound, the one where they do a full anatomy scan and announce the gender, I was a little dismayed when the first thing the tech shouted was not 'girl' or 'boy,' but "Wow! Look at that fibroid!"

(We would come to learn that every tech for the rest of the pregnancy zeroed in on the fibroid before the fetus. I don't know if they were so enamoured with the size of it or what, but I totally felt like Scotty as playing second fiddle to this stupid tumor. Not fair, dude, not fair. He's the star of the show.)

She took about 20 measurements of it that lasted for what seemed like hours before finally telling us we were having a little boy. (little did we know he was going to be a little bear.) She said the fibroid was about the size of an orange and sitting directly on my cervix.

Hmm.

Well, that explained the pressure. For the last few weeks prior to this appointment, I had been feeling off. Not sick, but like there was a lot of pressure...down there. Like the baby was going to fall out or something. I told the specialist about this (my first meeting with Dick) and he said without hesitation, "You're grounded. No flying, no traveling, don't leave the state. Limited activity from this point forward -- just work and home. That's it."

Yikes. It wasn't like I was in the middle of planning a pledge class reunion in Chicago or anything. Or that we hadn't even started working on the nursery, or that our cat required twice weekly trips for the vet for medication.

Butthe main reason for his dire concern wasn't the fact that the fibroid was growing at an alarming rate (all of that good, healthy, lasagna-flavored blood was nourishing both the baby and the fibroid), but the placement of it. When pregnant, the cervix is kind of a big deal. It's your gateway to the baby.  For those of you unfamiliar with a cervix, I'll use the analogy our L&D nurse did: it's like the neck of a balloon. The more air you blow into the balloon, the shorter the neck becomes. In pregnancy, the cervix needs to shorten in order to dilate so you can push baby out.

However, it needs to shorted after week 37...not week 25.

Like mine did.

Which leads me to the most dramatic part of my story: preterm labor. My giant fibroid continued to push on the cervix, causing it to shorten way, way too early. Which in turn, essentially sent me into labor 15 weeks early. Thankfully, we caught it early enough so there were no major complications, but Dick and George both said to me: "Dunzo."

And with that, bed rest began.

Scotty grew and grew, the fibroid grew and grew, and I, in turn, morphed into a beached whale that lived on our couch. By week 30, not only did I have this giant fibroid, which by this point was the size of a grapefruit, but I had this abnormally large baby that was almost 5 lbs. Then they told me I had too much fluid. As a result, I became a very grouchy beached whale and took it out on my husband.

I was on all kinds of meds to stop contractions from weeks 25-37 (once you get to a certain size, your body thinks you should go into labor...hence why multiples are born early.) The fibroid decided to grant me one favor around week 33 and in an ultrasound, Dick told me it had moved; as my uterus expanded, the fibroid went with it. It was now resting comfortably by my butt (posterior) and no longer pressing on my cervix. Did that explain the giant size of my rump, or was that more attributed to my Whopper/brownie addition? But due to Scotty's size and the fluid levels, I still had to stay on bed rest.

You probably know the rest of the story. I was taken off my meds on a Thursday, and by Sunday night, I was in labor. Monday they induced me (after that huge, scary blood clot hit my flip-flop; remember that part of the story??) and by 2am on Tuesday morning, Scotty made his very dramatic entrance into the world.

A few months after that, I went in for yet another ultrasound. The fibroid was now back to orange-size-status. Despite no baby to nourish, it wasn't shrinking the way it should be. And George told me that if I were to get pregnant again, there was a very good chance all of this would play out again and I would have to go back on bed rest.

Bed rest with a toddler? Um...no.

And so, we made the decision to operate. I was crazy enough to think I could do this last year (I was even like, "I'll just pump and dump for the first two days after surgery, and then I can continue to pump for Scotty! It'll work out! I'll be fine!" Crazy-talk, people.) (I was mainly thinking about our deductible had been met for the year, and why would I want to cough up another $2500?) But we held off and I'm glad we are doing it now, since the idea of pumping and dumping makes me want to rip my hair out. Hell, just the idea of pumping makes me shudder.

As of Oct. 16, 2010, the fibroid is the size of a racket ball (so happy to have moved away from the fruit analogies) and located in the posterior (back) position. Per George (this made me giggle hysterically), he is going to have to literally take my uterus out of my body, do his peach-shelling thing, and then put my uterus back in. Um...what? I just keep imaging my poor uterus being slapped around like a side of liver. Just put it back where you found, okay boys?

So that's my story. I bet you have never read the word 'fibroid' so many times in one sitting. And in about ten days, I hope I never hear the word again.

Forgive me if this entry is poorly written. I literally have about two minutes to write and 36 different things going on in my head.

First, weight: same.

::yawn::

Diet, blah, blah, blah. Exercise, blah, blah, blah. I've been to the gym a few times and am trying to be careful about what I'm eating. However, this past weekend, I was at the grocery store near in the dairy aisle and stumbled upon my all-time favorite butter (sad, I know, that I have a "favorite" butter.) It's this fancy-schmansy European kind that I indulged in while living in Ireland, and this little foil-wrapped packet of goodness jumped into my cart without a second thought. I made a bee-line for the bread aisle and stuffed some whole wheat English muffins in the cart as well, and let's just say, breakfast this week has never been more delicious.

So...yeah. Not good on the weight front, but so yummy on the taste buds.

And I'm okay with the lack of forward progress. I did follow Jill's advice last week and spent five minutes in front of a mirror, admiring my good features (in this order:  my hair, my teeth, my nose, my hands, and finally, my legs) and it was fun to think about things I like, not the things I want to change. During my mirror-gazing, I came to this realization: fat is a feeling, weight is a number. What I mean is you can feel "fat" at any weight - whether you are 190 lbs or look like Audrina Padridge (holy skinny cats!!). Likewise, you can feel great at any weight.  But weight - the number - exists as an objective measurement to help you have a goal AND a healthy size. Does that make sense? Either way, I've had my "fat" days and my "skinny" days, despite the number on the scale not moving much. I'm glad I still have a goal and weight or else I would totally lose motivation.

And I will admit...it's hard to find the motivation these days. I'm going to be cut open in less than two weeks. (just this morning, I was at Dr. Awesome's office for Scotty's flu booster shot, and I told her about the surgery, since it overlaps with his 15-month vaccine schedule. Her response? "So they are going to cut you open?" Really, doc? Really? Did you have to say it like that? That should be banned right along with 'bleed out.' ) I alternate between wanting to do a million sit-ups, since I won't have ab-usage for quite some time, and not doing any, thinking to myself, 'What' the use?'

And I'm not going to lie, in the back of my mind, I am secretly hoping George does a little nip/tuck while he's down there.

At present, there is a more present issue than body image and weight loss: separation anxiety. Holy moly, we are hitting a peak here people. Scotty cannot handle it if I leave the room even for a few seconds. I started to notice this a few weeks ago, namely at Music Lessons. During different times, we would have to get up and walk in a circle. Since Scotty was Little Mr. Independent then, he would never be next to me when we would start to walk. But all it took was for me to be 3 additional feet away from him (by my own doing) and he would glance around the room, frantically, scanning for his Momb. When his eyes met mine, it was like pure relief flooded the little guy...and then fury. You could practically read his thoughts: "Oh! Momb! She didn't leave me! Oh thank goodness! Wait, don't EVER do that to me again!"

Pout, pout, scream.

And it's only gotten worse since then. I left him with a baby-sitter last week and he pitched an ever-loving fit when I exited. She called me about 30 minutes later and said, "I don't think he was sad...I think he was just pissed. He hid on the other side of the kitchen island for a good five minutes, just screaming."

Oh wow.

And then on Thursday night, at Paid Humiliation, I handed him off to the swim instructor (like we've done for the past three months) -- with me no less than 2 feet away from him in the water -- and he began bellowing and shrieking like someone poured hot oil on him. He clawed away from her and for a second, I really thought he was going to start swimming (and kicking) just to get to me. But he just made some huge splashes and got me all wet.

He even does this to Brian. I'll run upstairs for something and within seconds, he's at the gate, shaking it like a mini King Kong, screaming "MEHHHHHHH!"

Let me tell you: so much fun.

Yesterday was the worst. Not only did he turn purple in the face when I left for a few seconds while at a friend's house (I had to unload stuff from my car), but he also woke up at 12:30am screaming. All it took was about 10 minutes of gentle rocking to calm him down, but I can, again, hear his little thought process: "Momb, don't leave. No Momb, no!!! You are never coming back! No stay here! EEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

While this is all developmentally appropriate (SA peaks between the ages of 15-18 months), leaving for a solid 2.5 days isn't...yeah, the surgery (and time at the hospital) is really weighing on me. Two and a half days is like an eternity in toddler years. He really is going to think I've left and am never coming back. And then when I do return, I'm not going to be able to pick him up or bathe him or feed him, like our normal routine. I've been asking myself over and over again, "Should I be doing this?" and I keep coming up with...yes. So, we will just all have to bear the brunt of...the Bear.

Oh, and I've gotten a lot of questions re: the fibroid and the surgery. In order to address all of the them, be sure to tune in tomorrow for a very special post, one I am calling, 'Behind the Blog: The Untold Story of my Fibroid." Good stuff!

Hooray for hoodie weather!! It's been in the low 70s, which is darn next to freezing for us Las Vegans. Brr...

Just one concern: do they make hoodies with extra cheek room?

I'm not going to lie...when I put Scotty's costume on this afternoon, my first thought was, "Hmm...a little mature for his age."

Well, next year we'll go as a Wiggle or a Teletubbie or something.

Today, we dress like a baby vampire.

Well, Scotty will (I'm not.) And it just begins a full week of celebrating Halloween.

(For the record, I'm totally understanding why people invented holidays; it's really fun for your kids! [I am sure this is the only reason why holidays exist.] I am so looking forward to all of this dressing up, event-worthy activity. Pre-kids, it was always like, "Well, yeah, we should dress up...but let's not. Let's just go buy a pumpkin." Now, I've been planning and thinking about Halloween since August. And then right around the corner is Thanksgiving! And then Christmas! Holiday bonanza! I can barely wrap my mind around paper turkey-hand-cut-outs and now you're telling me I have to trim a tree?)

Anyways...last week at music class, the teacher said the kids can come in their costumes for today's lesson. Sweet! Break out the baby vampire costume six days early. The weather is cooperating and let's just hope Scotty does too. I'll try to post pictures of it later.

Later this week, at preschool (more on that later), a friend is hosting yet another kiddie Halloween party. On Saturday, Brian and I will be attending an adults-only Halloween party (read: it starts after 7pm) and I have my Sookie Stackhouse costume ready to go (and Brian's 'Fellowship of the Sun' T-shirt is clean and on a hanger). On the actual day of Halloween, we are planning to go to an outdoor mall where they have trick-or-treating for the kids and fun activities (the same site of the Easter Day Egg Hunt Massacre). After that, we'll race home for Brian and the Bear do a little trick-or-treating in our new neighborhood (Scotty is going to be so excited to push all of these doorbells) while I man our house. 

Then...we'll hang up his little black tux with the red collar and cape. For good. It's tough to be a baby vampire, no? So many social engagements.

This is the way our weekend has broken down so far. Let me know if you see a theme.

Friday: Scotty decided to nap strike, so I threw him in the stroller and proceeded to march to the nearest park, about 1.5 miles away. Uphill. But, the weather was terrific and we both sported cute hoodies, so all was good. (and the walk back was thankfully downhill.)

By the time we returned from our trek, Brian was home to greet us. Scotty ate dinner and at some point, he lost his pants. I don't remember why, but he ended up climbing the stairs for bedtime/bathtime wearing only his t-shirt, diaper, and one sock. (It had been that kind of day). He also loves to detour to our room first before going to his room, so on this particular evening, we found ourselves in a little baby pile on the floor of our bedroom. With the Na-Na blanket, of course.

Once he was safely in his crib, Brian and I ordered some sushi, opened a nice bottle of wine, and settled in front of the TV to catch up on our shows from the past week. A lovely night, indeed.

On Saturday, I did the yard work, hit the gym, and the nail salon while Brian and the Bear went to Paid Humiliation. (FYI: Gel nails are no joke. As you may recall from a previous post, I decided to go with a dark nail color as a result of my Boot Camp empowerment. Well, the nail tech talked me into doing a gel manicure - "Exactly like nail polish but it will last longer and not chip!" I agreed. Fast forward to two weeks later, and this manicure is still going strong. Except the my nails have started to grow out, and I am sick to death of Vamp; I kind of look vampy and my once-square nails are getting dangerously long. When I tried to soak off the polish, imagine my surprise when it didn't budge. Not an inch. I tried to peel it off but along with the polish came the entire top layer of my nail. Owwww. I decided to just go back to the salon and see if they could help me. Well, to the cost of an additional $10, they sanded my polish off. With that little drill bit thing. Yeah, 'exactly like nail polish' my arse. I'm sticking with nude nails for the forseeable future, thankyouverymuch).

Anyways...after all that drama, Scotty went down for a nap like a champ and Brian and I cleaned out the garage. Like, seriously cleaned. We have a huge pile of stuff to be donated, another pile of Craigslist stuff, and Brian went to the dump no less than three times. I swept the garage from top to bottom.  Later, we had a great dinner with friends and Scotty actually fell asleep in the car on the way home.

Today I woke up with an insatiable desire to make meatballs (currently cooling on the counter). I also have a grocery list in front of me with all the ingredients needed to make (and freeze) bolognese sauce, minestrone soup, and several varieties of muffins. Mind you, this is after I cleaned Scotty's stroller ("de-Cheerio'd" if you will), organized his secret closet, and emptied some more boxes. I was seriously considering organizing the recycling (and washing out the bins) and trying to squeeze in some vacuuming when it hit me...

I am nesting.

Is it the weather? My mom's eminent arrival in ten days? (We like to fool her into believing we are clean, organized people.) No, it's much more simple than that: I am nesting like I'm about to have a child. Except I'm having a fibroid. A large, healthy, well-nourished fibroid by all accounts. It's causing me to have this crazy desire to organize my house, right down to scrubbing out the garbage can because in two weeks, I'm going to have a fibroid.

(is anyone going to send us Lou Malnati's as a congratulations? I doubt it.)

Yes, the surgery is identical to a c-section (minus that whole 'shelling the peach' thing v. pulling out a baby), but oh my gosh, this is so strange. I mean, I never got a chance to nest while pregnant with Scotty; I just barked orders from my supine position on the couch. And now, with the thought that my beloved routine is going to be interrupted for four to six weeks, I am scrambling to cross my 'ts' and dot my 'i's'. Quickly. In the form of exercise, cleaning, and cooking.

Like a crazy person.

We need to buy a bigger freezer.

T-minus 14 days and counting.

(I would write more, but I just noticed the baseboards need to be scrubbed. And this computer screen is dirty.)

...as told by me.

I usually wouldn't do this (and trust me, Liz gave her consent; her dopey, drugged, exhausted consent, but it was a consent no less) but I was gasping and laughing so hard during her labor and delivery story that this is just a tale that needs to be told. And it has a happy ending, which is the best news ever.

Okay, as I mentioned yesterday, I saw on Facebook that Liz had had her baby in the morning. This surprised me since we had just been texting the day before and she absolutely did not mention anything about feeling like she was going to give birth anytime soon. And, she wasn't due until November 4 (and Wes was 10 days overdue) so I don't think any of us were expecting her to pop out a kid so quickly.

And then, amid the congratulating comments on her wall, her sister mentioned something about doing it with no drugs.  That surprised me. After all, she hadn't mentioned anything about wanting to do natural and it didn't really fit her personality...so I was confused. But then again, she was very passionate about breastfeeding and held on for a full year, so maybe this was the next likely step? Childbirth with no meds? Okay, whatever floats your boat.

And then she called me in the afternoon and I got the real scoop. (Again, how do I have these friends who are capable of speech hours after labor and delivery? I don't remember talking in complete sentences for weeks afterward.) Turns out things were very scary and very hectic -- starting with her water breaking at 2:40am. And, per Liz, her water didn't actually break until she reached the bathroom, but some kind of internal, universal Mothering signal caused her to wake up and race out of the bedroom. Gotta love instincts. (Brian and I were just arguing last weekend about a mother's sixth sense, and this story just puts one more piece of evidence in my column. I think he's just jealous that he doesn't possess that sense.)

Anyways, after securing childcare for 2-year old Wes, they raced to the hospital and were admitted around 4am. With her blood pressure too high and protein in her urine, the nurses decided to run some additional labs to check for that all-too-scary condition: pre-eclampsia. While they waited, Liz said she became increasing uncomfortable and pestered the nurse with questions of when she was going to get her epidural. Per the nurse: not until your labs come back. If you do have pre-e, there is a chance you could bleed out as they administer the epi. (Don't you just love nurses? Seriously, they should ban the term "bleed out" when dealing with mothers).

So Lizzie languished in the bed for another few hours. At 6:40, four very quick hours after her water breaking, the nurse declared her to be 5cm. Liz continued to ask for drugs. The nurse declined; the labs were still not back. Liz told her that every time she had a contraction, she was going to scream at the top of her lungs, "I WANT AN EPIDURAL!" until she received some relief from this constant pain.

And she did.

According to Liz, her screaming varied from "I WANT AN EPIDURAL!" to "I WANT A F*&KING EPIDURAL" to "SWEET JESUS GIVE ME AN EPIDURAL!"

Okay, that sounds a lot more like the Liz I know.

By 7:15, Liz begged the nurse to please check her since the need to push was overwhelming. The nurse, per Liz, kind of snorted at her and continued reading the labs. Again, with Liz screaming at the nurse, the woman finally consented and found Liz to be at 10cm and the baby's head crowning.

And with that, the nurse hit the panic button.

Liz said she remembers about 11 people running into the room, none of which were her doctor (who missed the birth completely) and then blacking out from the pain. She recalls a woman telling her "One more push and the shoulders will be out!" while thinking to herself, "The head is out?" And then, little baby Whitney emerged into this world, weighing a delicate 5lbs, 13oz and stretched out to 19 inches long.

At the time I spoke with Liz, there was no middle name yet. (I had my fingers crossed for Kimberly or maybe Emma). And again, in typical Liz fashion, she told me, "I thought I still had two more weeks...we barely had a girl's name picked out. No middle name yet." When I asked about Kurt, her husband, she said, "Are you kidding me? After he watched me go through all of that, he was like, 'You can name her whatever you want. You've earned it.'"  Ah, good man.

As it turns out, Liz did have pre-eclampsia. She has to stay in bed for a full 24-hours and is taking magnesium to prevent further complications. She said she winced when the nurse (a different one from the morning) told her she needed a catheter...as CatheterGate popped into mind. (Jen also told me she told her nurse about my situation and CatheterGate; clearly, this story has legs). Let's hope her bladder didn't decide to take a vacation for 16 days. 

Despite all of the drama and complications (and incompetent nurses), Liz sounded remarkably good and pleased as pudding when discussing little Whitney. I am so happy things turned out as well as they did, and am wishing her a speedy recovering. Congrats!!

Okay, there is so much going on these days my head is spinning.

First, I'd like to apologize to anyone I may have offended during No-Fat Talk Week. (Jill, thank you for pointing that out.) I did not realize it was No-Fat Talk Week since I have never celebrated it (honored it? Taken notice of it?) before, but now, I will.

Second, now two friends have had babies in recent days, leading me to believe we are in the second wave of Alpha Gam births (the first one was in July). Jen and baby D are resting comfortably and I found out earlier today Liz had a baby girl this morning. Congrats, Jen and Lizzie! 

I think April is next...! :-)

And speaking of Jen, I just have to say, I love her. She cracks me up. I think I'd mentioned before that she usually calls me around the same time each day; Scotty is down for his nap and Jen is driving to pick up Rowan from daycare. We talk for 15 minutes and then have to continue the conversation until the next day. And Tuesday was no different. She called at 2:45 and was like, "Hi...thought I'd call you like I normally do."I broke into slightly hysterical giggles. I mean, seriously. Who pushes out a baby two hours previously and then still has their wits about them to call and chat with friends? Only Jen. She relayed a little of her birth story to me, and if she wasn't my friend, I don't know if I would have believed her. Little Baby D (and he's not so little...8lbs, 10oz, 20.5 inches long) came into this world with a half of a push. Let me say that again: a HALF of a PUSH.

Mind you, I pushed for almost 60 minutes and lost my bladder in the process.

Not Jen. A half of a push and he entered the world. (I am just glad she was at the hospital...we had been talking for weeks that the little man was going to make an early entrance, and I was terrified for her she was going to give birth on the side of a rural country road in central Illinois.) I told her she was born for breeding and better continue to have kids.

And aside from babies, my new endeavor started last night: Junior League. It was a very informative meeting and I met some nice people.

I also learned the first rule of Junior League: you don't talk about Junior League.

The second rule of Junior League: you DO NOT talk about Junior League!

(obviously, I'm being silly...this is a quote from a movie. [guesses? Everyone should know this!] In all seriousness, it was a great meeting and I'm looking forward to volunteering.)

And finally, I haven't talked much about it on the blog, but I found out this morning that yes, I will definitely have to have surgery on the fibroid....in 19 days. That seems sudden, doesn't it? I am both happy and nervous; happy that the darn fibroid will finally meet his maker, and nervous because this is major surgery. Two nights in the hospital and six weeks until I can resume normal activities. How does chasing after an increasing-fast-moving-28-pound Bear factor into that picture? I have no idea. My mom is coming out to help, which is great, but I am worried that Scotty, Mr. Separation-Anxiety-Bear as of late, is going to be a total pill for her while I'm gone. I know he'll be fine (and I will too), it's just...blah. And blech. The idea of being cut open just isn't very appealing.

(I also wish I could call my mom and talk to her about this, but she is at Quilting Camp until Saturday. It's like sleep-away camp with quilts.)

Oh, and yes, George will be performing the surgery. In my recent consults with him, he told me extracting the fibroid is "just like shellin' a peach." (He went to school in Georgia.) Great. Such a lovely analogy. And for the record, when Adam and Tiffany were in town a few weekends ago, I tried to shell a peach (for our little brunch/breakfast) and it was WAY harder than I thought. I ended up throwing the peach away because I had mashed it into a pulp in my efforts to get the pit out. Technically, that would be my uterus...but I'm trying to not think about that.

So, there you have it: No-Fat Talk Week, more babies, Jr. League, and my uterus. Quite a mash-up, huh?

I have just a few moments to write, so...

weight: same!

This is not a bad thing. Not at all. Considering the last two weeks have been nothing short of yummy dinners, very little gym time, and those darn cupcakes from the Retro Bakery, I feel blessed that the scale didn't move at all.

Yeah, the diet stuff is hard. But I have no one to blame except myself, and in my defense, I feel as though I'm not really eating very much, but what I am eating is high in fat and calories. Such as...creamed spinach. (one of my all-time favorites.) And at dinner on Saturday, I ordered the lamb like I usually do but only ate one chop. Still...that one chop probably had about 600 calories (it was soooo delicious). So I feel like I've accomplished Phase One (eating less) of the mental game of weight loss, so it's time to move on to Phase Two (making healthier choices.)

Also, I had a moment last week at Paid Humiliation (which was more humiliating than usual, since Scotty screamed the entire class, causing me to leave early) where I caught sight of myself in the mirror in the pool's locker room. Funny how I am so used to seeing myself in the mirror at my own house...and in this one, clad in only my black swimsuit, I looked...not good. There is a lot of me to love, for lack of a better phrase. And as much as I fret about the tummy area, I realized, "You can't suck your butt in." It's there. There is no hiding it. Ditto for the thighs, arms, chin, and chest. Yup...I have a lot of work to do.

I managed to hit the gym three times this week (including the terrible gym day-care nightmare) and I'm pleased with that. It's funny how going to the gym makes you so much more cognizant of all of your body parts; when I was a couch potato (or on bed rest), it's easy to fool yourself into thinking you look better than you do. But at the gym, I've realized that the girl in the mirror isn't how I want to look; there are many parts jiggling as she jogs. I'm not saying this to be self-deprecating, but more from a realistic, practical standpoint. It gives me a goal to work on.

So, how are you doing? Any good recipes to share? Lizzie, I tried your chicken taco dish and it was so good! Brian liked it to, which is a sign of successful dinner.

Thoughts? Tips? Opinions?