Monthly Archives: January 2014

~ No One Ever Listens To Me ~

I called it by the second quarter.  I said, “Trevor is sick.  Ten bucks says he is sick.  He’s not playing like he is tired, he’s playing like he is sick.”  A mother knows these things.  Even if I’m not his mother, I could just tell.  I can even smell a fever on a kid’s breath.  For Real.

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They poo-pooed me.

By the third quarter, Trevor’s head and legs and arms would be down the court, but his butt was still dragging on the other end of the court.  The boy was sucking wind like a fish out of water.  This boy is one of the top scorers in the county, and he could hardly get to the basket this game.

“He’s sick, I tell you.”

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They poo-pooed me.

He wasn’t even trying for rebounds, and at one point, I swear he looked green.  “He doesn’t need Gatorade,” I shook my head, “he needs chicken soup and his bed.”

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They poo-pooed me.

Critter decided it was his job to sub for Trevor’s dad, Ty, who couldn’t be at the game tonight.  Ty is, er, passionate when watching a game.  Yelling “You Suck!” to a ref is par for the course, in Ty’s world.   Garrick has been watching and learning…ever the dedicated pupil.   I did not allow him to yell “You Suck!” but he did yell other, nearly as insulting things to the refs.  “You Stink!” can sound pretty menacing from that boy. Ty would have been proud.


When the game was over, we met Trev courtside.  The first question I asked was, “Are you sick?”

“Yeah.” He firmly agreed.  “My stomach really hurts.”

“YES!” I laughed, and clapped with glee.   This was, er, not the reaction anyone was expecting.

“I mean, I’m sorry that you’re not feeling well, and all, but I’ve been telling them and telling them that something was wrong with you!”  I couldn’t have been more pleased with my instinctual accuracy.

Trev just looked at me politely, and then gently took a slow step back.

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Critter went in for a picture with him, and I am not sure, but I think Trev was using him as a human shield.

But I was right, dagnabbit.  I am feeling very smug in my Mommy-ness right now.

No one ever listens to me.

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~ Trouble Brewing ~

What do you get when you take a extra sugary,  Monsters Vs. Alien’s B.O.B – themed birthday cake,

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11 lit candles,

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a newly turned, 11 year-old-boy,

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and a Grandma,

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who is mature enough not to care about what the world thinks,

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but juvenile enough to entertain and enable all of the 11-year-old’s impish plots?

That’s right.


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with a capital “T.”

God help us.

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~ Getting Seriously Concerned ~

How does a man who defines the word “Manly,”


from whom you can just SMELL the testosterone oozing,

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one who makes women swoon just in performing simple tasks,


one with the forethought to donate his free time to teach future generations what heroism means,


one who joins his manly man friends in charity drives for burn hospitals,


one who looks like he was born in the wilds of Montana, without even trying,

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one who makes fatherhood look positively easy…..

how does he also manage to bring his sick wife an artistically arranged meal in bed (complete with inventive walker/tray-stand) that looks like it popped out of a magazine?

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I mean, the time and attention that went into the salad alone….

makes me seriously concerned if my particular talents are even needed in this marriage!

How the heck does he do it???

I joke that he is totally left-brained….but when I see a salad that has been artistically arranged like this….. THAT, my friends, is a seriously right-brained salad.

It’s like I’m married to Dudley Do Right, Ironman, and Martha Stewart, all in one. I’m seriously, SERIOUSLY concerned!

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~ Usurper ~

Sit back and read a story of betrayal.  Brace yourself for a tragedy and travesty so disheartening, you’ll be left weeping bitter, salty tears.

The story revolves around Macaroni and Cheese, My Captain, the rest of my traitorous family, a prosthetic knee, and me.  You can tell just by those players that this will be a real seat-gripper, can’t you?

Understand this:  I love to cook.  I always have.  I also love to eat.  And almost more than those two combined, I love to feed.

And I’ve gotten pretty good at it.  Almost got cocky about it, really.  There are few problems in life I can’t solve with a decent Baklava.  People know if you are hungry, I can fix it.

Last week I had an arthritic knee taken out of my right leg, and had a new, prosthetic one put in.  It’s been a rough ride because I’ve had not one, but two infections after my surgery.  The knee is doing really well; but I’m still a sick puppy, and on more antibiotics than my stomach can handle.

Nausea has been my constant companion.

So not only can I not stand long enough to cook, I can’t really even enjoy the thought of food. This is the first time in my life for that, I assure you!

Enter My Captain.  If you have read any of my previous posts, you’ll know he is a Captain, Station Commander, Firefighter, Paramedic, Rescue Technician, former Task Force Leader, builder, athlete, outdoorsman, and general manly-man.  But even as varied is talents are, “Cook” has never really something he is known for.

Never the less, over this past week and a half,  he has really stepped up to the plate.  The entire week that I was in the hospital, he never left my side.  And the last few days that I have been home, he has only left my side to do the work that would normally fall under my responsibilities, like laundry, or helping me get in the shower, or preparing ice bags for me, or making sure the kids got to their scheduled events on time, or charting my medicine schedule, or, my personal favorite, putting my jammies in the dryer to warm them for when I got out of the shower. (Ladies, THAT is where you separate the men from the boys!)

Absolutely grateful for this man’s giving nature, the extreme challenge of the last 10 days has been mitigated considerably.  And everything on that list he has done in his own, inimitable, perfectionist way.  It’s been amazing.  I’ve fallen in love with him again, and again, this week alone.

Until yesterday.

Yesterday My Captain cooked dinner.  It was a special dinner – Critter had a birthday!  Critter wanted homemade Mac-n-cheese, fresh mangos, and a “BOB” (from Monsters Vs. Aliens) birthday cake.  Obviously I wasn’t up to the task.   But this was a big deal because Critter loves my homemade Mac-n-cheese.  So I tried to supervise (micromanage) the culinary proceedings until my nausea quite literally drove me out of the kitchen, along with My Captain’s constant, “All Right!  All Right!  I got it already!”

Finally, it was finished.  My Captain, my children, Grandma Jane and I sat down.  It began almost immediately.  “This is the BEST Mac-n-cheese I’ve ever had!”  and, “Wow, Mom has got to do whatever it is you do with this recipe!” and, “Can I have thirds?”.  Even my own mother, who has always had my back in life, got on the bandwagon with, “I don’t usually like Mac-n-cheese, Troy, but I sure would like the recipe for this.”

And me?  My contribution to the discussion?  “It needs salt.”

My Captain hasn’t smirked.  He hasn’t snickered, or rubbed it in.  He has been ever the humble gentleman about it.

And do you know why?

Sure, sure, it has something to do with the good man he is, but deeper than that, it is something far more powerful.

He knows that he has to sleep sometime, and stealing even a piece of my Kitchen Goddess Crown is a dangerously perilous marital crime!

I will say, though, it was tasty……


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~ Stoned Mama, Meet Sober Mama! ~

I’m home!  I’m home WITH a brand spankin’ new knee!  I’m bionic!  I’ve got STRAIGHT legs!

I can’t walk worth a crap, but that’s beside the point.

And that will change over the next few weeks!

Much of what happened at the hospital was a blur, I confess.  There was Dilaudid and Zofran involved, both of which don’t exactly help Mama with the ol’ linear-thinking thing.

But, um, one small item, which I had indeed forgotten, was remembered when we came home yesterday.

On the first night after the surgery, My Captain was beat.  He was totally zonked.  He had been waiting all day, in a full surgical waiting room, and was just getting over being sick, himself.  So by 10pm, he was making some serious Z’s on the recliner chair beside my hospital bed.  There was snoring and drooling involved.  He was adorable.  Poor guy.

But me?  I had been unconscious for most of the day, mostly in drug-induced haze.  By 10pm, I was raring to go!  I was alert!  I was happy!  I was ready to party! I had a new knee in my leg after all (which, along with its partner, was tied down to the bed in inflating, anti-blood clot contraptions) so this was no time to be sleeping!  Especially while I was enjoying the euphoric effects of my pain killer.  Friends, Mama Boe was STONED.  Legally, but totally, stoned.

I twiddled my thumbs while I thought about what I could do with my awake time.  I watched My Captain sleep for entertainment, but that got old after a minute or so.   I couldn’t turn the TV on, for fear of waking the tired man.  I looked over and found my Kindle, all charged, and ready to go!  YEY!

I played a few games, and then in my drunken stupor realized I had access to the hospital’s WiFi.  That meant the internet!  Before you can say “Paypal,” I was shopping online, baby!

I don’t remember much after that.

The next day, sometime in the afternoon during group Physical Therapy, I suddenly remembered doing something like that.  I said to the woman next to me, “Hey, I think ….I’m not sure….but I think I was shopping on the internet last night….”  She started laughing and cried, “Girlfriend!  Your husband let you shop while on Dilaudid?!”

Which stopped me in my tracks.  First of all, I wasn’t SURE I had shopped.  I sure as heck didn’t know what I’d bought.  And I sure as hell had not informed My Captain.  He had enough on his worry plate!

I was anxious about this for the next thirty minutes, until the next dose of Dilaudid was injected, and then I stopped caring, frankly.  And that was the last I thought about it.

Until yesterday.

When we pulled up to the door of The Little Cottage.

There, by the door, were several large UPS/Amazon type boxes, stacked like Christmas presents.

I looked at My Captain and immediately confessed,  “Um, love? I think Drunk Me might have bought Sober Me a couple of gifts Monday night.”

Other than a smirk, his face showed no emotion.  He was not surprised.  Not one bit!  He didn’t scold me.  Instead he showed patience, and was happy to see what I’d purchased, before I, er returned them all!

UNTIL I rocked the new Dansko Clogs that Drunk Me had had the fantastic sense of style to purchase.  Those I refused to part with.   Oh, and the stained glass Cabin Accent Light.


I couldn’t possibly part with that.

He shook his head, especially when I was modeling the clogs with my walker,

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(Which, when you have my kind of total-knee-replacement-swagger, can be somewhat overpowering.) and simply loved me.  Both of me.

But I think he loves Sober Me better.  Sober Me is a lot less expensive.

Don’t judge.

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