Whoopie

Henry went to a birthday party today. He had a terrific time and behaved himself and didn't blurt out what the present was or anything. Inside his gift bag was a little whoopie cushion. Henry thought it was hilarious. All the way home in the car, for the next five hours after we got home, Henry simulated various flatulent sounds. This evening I had to sit on it before he'd let me trim his hair. Ah, the sacrifices we make to ensure our kids look half way decent.

Another Day

Today was book club, hosted by me. The book was Atlas Shrugged, by Ayn Rand. Since it's a huge thousand and something page tome, we only read the first two sections and are saving the last section for next month. In the book the main protagonist gets a mysterious cigarette imprinted with a dollar sign that's the best smoke ever, etc., so I made some of those "Neiman-Marcos" cookies and with a melted chocolate bar in a plastic ziplock bag I squirted dollar signs on them. I should have taken a picture, because they actually turned out decent, but alas, I neglected to before the locust plague of kids descended and devoured everything in sight. Ben will be sad. Oh, well. We had a long discussion that took up the entire two hours. Next month should be interesting when we wrap it up.

Last night I go the bill that is not a bill from the hospital for my surgery. Why is it that me lying in a bed for a few hours costs three times more than the services provided by a skilled anesthesiologist? I guess the world will never know.

Snow Day

Last night it started snowing around midnight. I was happy because I told Henry when he went to bed that the weatherman said their might be snow. Henry's only seen one snow in his life and he was only two so he doesn't remember it at all, and there was just enough accumulated on the deck to make a snowman. This morning Henry was very excited and I managed to get some ovaltine and a slice of bread in him before we had to go out to play. Ben stayed home from work and so we all went to the neighbors, who happen to have sleds and a steep driveway. It was one of those snows that are useless for making snowmen and snowballs and stuff, but Henry had a lot of fun. I was just happy to be feeling well enough to go outside and play. I refrained from sledding since the holes in my gut aren't quite healed, and flipping over into slush in the middle of the street didn't seem like a happy way to end a sled ride. Back home I made a snow angel and decided when it was time to get up that one was enough.

I thought it was pretty funny that the governor decided to call a state of emergency for the snow. It's not like there was an ice storm or anything. I guess she felt obligated to incite the bread/milk panic to help bolster the economy.

My Moment to Whine

Last Thursday I went in for what I like to call adventures in general anesthesia and waking up with three tiny holes in my gut. The procedure was to supposedly surgically correct what my doctor deduced that kind of could be the reason why I suck at getting pregnant; i.e., unblock or remove my right fallopian tube. Generally I'm not one to be squeamish and don't usually have any trouble watching those graphic discovery channel shows, except when it has anything to do with burns, which I find horrifically nauseating. Of course when it comes to me being the subject of the needle pokes I have no problem just so long as I look away while the poking commences, that way I don't flinch and cause a whole new series of needle jabs. I don't like the dental hygienist tampering with my mouth much, either, because there's always the slim chance she'll screw up somehow and shave off half my gums with one of her sharp scraper thingies. General anesthesia is not my favorite, basically because every time I wake up from it it sucks. I'm completely useless for several hours afterward and there's usually something pressing like being extremely thirsty or crazy pain or something and I can't do anything about it except sound completely undignified.

My wonderful sister Maggie took a day off work to assist me and my wonderful neighbor took Henry for the day, so there was nothing to worry about except something happening to me and Maggie being unable to reach my neighbor, something happening to Henry and my neighbor being unable reach Maggie, having an overdraft fee in case there wasn't enough money in my account to pay the huge prepayment, and a million other things you only think about five minutes before you're scheduled to be operated on. I was slightly nervous, as indicated by a heart rate that kept pace with that of a field mouse, and the anesthesiologist asked me if I'd like a shot that'd make me feel like I'd had a cocktail. I'd just finished telling her I didn't use alcohol, so there's no telling what a cocktail would do to me. Picture the results: me, dancing atop the gurney, whooping and swinging my hospital gown around my head. Not really, just me the same as before without the racing heart. Then there was the fun game of let's poke veins until we finally get one suitable for an intravenous line. Woo hoo!

One minute I'm breathing into a mask as directed and the next somebody's asking me to rate my pain. Rate my pain? Ten if it made me feel like screaming down to one if it barely hurts. I don't know; it just hurts. Okay, if it was ten I'd be screaming and they'd know it already, and obviously there was enough pain such that I was irritated enough to not play their stupid numeric rating game, so they just hit me with morphine until I said I was fine and went back to sleep.

I woke up after a nap and several ridiculous attempts to clear my head by shaking it. As I've said before, I am pathetic when coming out of it. Then when I was lucid enough, Maggie went over what the doctor told her. First off, he did not unclog my tube, neither did he remove it, but he did cut out some scar tissue. She showed me some cool photos of my innards. She said that the doctor told her I hadn't signed a consent form for him to do the tube procedure. What the crap?! I'd signed no less than two different consent forms and had explained what I was in for to at least three different people. I can imagine the scene in the O.R.: me, lying unconscious, looking vulnerable yet somehow attractive with a big plastic pipe sticking out of my mouth, the doctor poking holes in me, filling my abdomen with CO2, watching the dye mark my tube, readying his surgical tools... Then he hesitates. "Wait a sec, everybody! Where's that consent form? What? It's missing? Well, damn. Guess I'd better close her up." Five minutes later he goes out and buys a yacht.

Well, I suppose it wasn't exactly like that. But still. I paid good money for a procedure that was not done. Not only was it not done, that which was done will probably have a zero percent chance of improving my fertility, and I still had to go through the whole pain of waiting nearly four days for the stupid gas in my guts to dissipate. And let me tell you how much fun that was. Imagine a huge ball of pressure crammed right up in your diaphragm, so you can't breathe, plus it hurts like hell, and your shoulders hurt for no reason, and when you sit or stand it hurts more, and when you burp it hurts even more. The only thing that didn't hurt was the stupid little incisions. So no, I'm not looking forward to another laparoscopy, ever. And yes, I'm unhappy. And I'm glad I have a week to heal and cool off before I chat with the doctor.

Stupid doctor made me share my feelings...

Oh, and in case you were wondering, here's my belly button, and my bloated gut. It'd be naughty to show the other two bandages...

I Ain't Stupid

The other day as I was herding Henry to the car, he told me something about how the old man called the sheep poop. I whirled around and snapped at an unsuspecting Ben, "You let him watch 'Billy Madison,' didn't you?"

"Oh, I didn't think you'd find out." Or something like that.

Come on, give me a break. Henry repeats everything he sees; how could I not find out?

At least Ben tricked him into believing it was sheep.

Henry's Quote of the Day

"A good corn dog never quits."

I wish I knew what that meant.

A Family Legacy

Yesterday while I was helping Mom with Christmas preparations she uttered an exasperated, "Golly day!" I smiled, because that's a phrase that before I met my friend Brittany in high school had never been said before in my family. Now Mom says it, I say it, Maggie says it, and even Ben says it. It caused me to think about the other things I've picked up from friends over the years. It took me a good five years or so to quit calling everybody honey thanks to my mission pal, Aniesa. Then after her recent visit I was at it again. I called Dad honey, Ben's friend Edward honey, and who knows who else. Then Mom said crap and I asked her about that one. I thought I'd picked it up from a childhood friend because I remember Mom harping on me for saying it in front of her. Mom corrected that misconception, telling me she'd said it for years. Not only that, but Grandma had been particularly fond of saying it, to the point that her yearbook quote was, "Oh, crap!"

Ah, crap, a family tradition for three generations. If Grandma were still around I'd give her a big hug.

Henry's Incredible Lego Haul

Yes, he got his precious "A-boat" and a few other Lego sets as well. He wanted to take some to Papaw's house, but Ben said no and told him that there were rats there who liked to eat legos. I'm not sure if Henry really believed it, but at any rate the legos stayed home. I pretty much forgot about Ben's little lie until Henry opened his present from Grandma and Papaw and wanted to assemble his legos. Ben wanted to wait until we got home so nothing would accidentally get left behind. Henry countered with, "There are no rats in here!"

For Your Viewing Pleasure

Too bad the video cut off Henry's awesome comeback: "No, it's not!"

Here It Is: The Christmas Card Blog

Okay, people, due to extreme sloth this year, this year's Christmas Card is online. It probably would have been better to go get a portrait made and all, but when you've been procrastinating like I have lately... Anyway, here it is:

MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

Love, The Tilleys

And the exciting 2008 Update on everything that's been going on, etc:

This year's been pretty much the same as last year. We're still in the Spanish branch at church, still driving the same old car, doing the same old routine. Ben's been working hard at his job as a computer programmer, and playing video games and hanging out with his family in his free time. The annual beard is back, but this year he's decided to keep it neat so wifey doesn't have much to complain about. Sarah's still doing the stay-at-home mom thing, keeping Henry alive and entertained. She's going on her fourth year as an assistant den leader in cub scouts, plus somehow got roped into being the choir director at church-- this should end well. She's also stayed busy teaching Joy School to Henry and his friends. Henry's growing up fast, learning his ABC's and 123's. He's gotten good at writing his name and is looking forward to turning five this February and starting kindergarten next fall. He's completely devoted to all things boy now, which includes shunning the "girl" aisle in the toy store, although it's still okay to play with his girlfriends. Henry has officially become a Lego addict and has declared that he shall work for Lego Star Wars when he grows up. Dori the cat is as fat as ever, despite having had eleven teeth extracted. She likes to eat bugs and knock Legos under the tv cabinet, throw up her cat food, and snuggle in warm laps. It's been a great year and we're looking forward to another great one.

Love you all!

Henry Vs. Christmas

Henry's had his eye on a certain Lego product for a while now: a speedboat with an A printed across its noble prow (or whatever you call that part). He's determined he must have it, his precious "A-boat", and spent several minutes salivating over it in the toy aisle with me while Ben snuck off to covertly buy Henry's presents. He is, of course, getting this for Christmas. What kid wouldn't want a Lego set that comes with a cool speedboat, a damsel in distress, her daring rescuer, an evil genius ala Jaws from the James Bond movies, and sharks with frickin' lasers attached to their heads. The other day Henry decided that he must have the "A-boat" right away without delay. I explained that Christmas was coming really soon and that he'd have to wait and see if Santa brought him what he wanted. Henry by virtue of being a kid, decided this waiting stuff was for the birds. So ensued an hour-long debate, Henry pro Get the Lego set Now, me on the opposing side. An approximation of how it went down:

Henry: Mom, I'm stuck on the A-boat.

Me: That's great, Henry. But you have to wait until Christmas.

Henry: Hey, I got it! How about we buy it!

Me: (Suppressing laughter because he's so dang cute) We're not going to the store today. You'll have to wait until Christmas.

Henry: I hate Christmas! Christmas blows!

Me: Seriously, you can't say blows. You say that again and I'm banning the Simpsons. (I've already banned Family Guy.)

Henry: Okay. Sorry. I hate Christmas!

Me: You don't hate Christmas, you hate waiting for Christmas so you can get your Legos.

Henry: Mom, you've got one choice (holding up two fingers). I get the A-boat or you get in trouble!

Me: Sustained Laughter.

And so on.

Henry has decided the worst thing in the world to get for Christmas is socks and underwear. I keep threatening to get him some if he doesn't stop whining about the A-boat; that usually shuts him up. It's nice to have a verbal weapon other than the threat of time out or spanking.

While Ben was napping the other day I whispered to Henry, "What should we get Daddy for Christmas?"

Henry whispered back, "Underwear!"

Because Everyone Needs Closure

Yes, the bird carcass has vacated the tree. It's neither hanging upside down from the branch, nor is it festering on the ground beneath the branch, so we can assume one of two things: something ate it (blechhh!) or it flew its zombie self south for the winter. I'm going for the zombie angle myself.

Wonders Never Cease

Yesterday while I was busily occupied with something other than housework, Henry told me he cleaned his room. I received this information with little doubt as to the truth of his statement; I knew he believed he cleaned his room but I was under the impression that it was "clean" according to Henry, i.e., he'd picked up a few things or made his bed. So I got up and followed him to his room that I might give positive reinforcement to a voluntary, unprompted act of cleanliness.

His room was clean. I was floored.

Check it out:



High five, buddy!

My Butt Has Finally Thawed

Today, being Monday, was park day, so Henry and I dutifully walked to the park. Apparently everyone else in the world thought it was too cold to be out. The park was deserted, so we walked the greenway and went over the highway to the other "dragon" park. I was really surprised because this one was desolate as well. I honestly didn't think it was that cold, except for my ears. We played a while and Henry had his snack and I decided since we were so close we'd walk over to the grocery store across the street and buy a bag of oranges. So we did, stopping first at a toy store. On the way home, walking on the trail beneath the power lines, Henry munched M&M's and went into million-question mode.

"Mom, why are trees green?"

I explained about chlorophyll as efficiently as I could.

"Mom, I love you."

"I love you, too."

Then it was fifteen other questions, I'd answer and Henry would tell me he loved me.

I guess he was prepping me for when we got home and it was time to clean his room and he decided he was going to be lazy. That's what he always says when I tell him to clean up: "But Mom, I'm lazy. I want to be a slob."

Gee, wonder where he got that from.

Anyway, it occurred to me that perhaps it had been a bit nippy to be out when I noticed four hours later when Ben got home that my butt was still cold from our outdoor excursion.

On a side note, tonight we did a little Christmas shopping at a certain electronics store Ben loves. As we were lining up to make our purchases, Henry was standing in the aisle staring at something on a display when an employee came strolling along looking everywhere but four-year-old level and slammed right into him. It was a sight to behold, what with the tall, skinny guy practically doing a cartwheel as he tripped over Henry, then grabbing him as he fell in what I can only assume was a defensive move to keep Henry from hitting his head on the floor. Henry was okay and I might have laughed (it looked hilarious to me) but the guy hurt his finger so I didn't.

Are Y'all Serious?

Since there have been actual requests of a photographic evidence:



And:



Yes, these photos were taken this morning. After yesterday's failed attempt to disentangle the bird from the branch. Vigorous shaking of the tree branch whipped the bird all over the place and sent feathers flying, but had no effect on the cold dead claw. We even resorted to two rakes. I was quite literally hanging off of the metal garden rake hooked onto the branch trying to bend it enough to where Ben could get within whacking range. Note in the first photo the scarring just visible on the branch near the bird. Ben broke several tines off the plastic rake trying to knock the carcass off. Whack and shake as we might, the bird insists upon rotting in the open air.

Dead Bird Update...

Because I know you're all on the edge of your seats wanting to know if the carcass has dropped yet.

Nope. The carcass, or Rotten Robin, as I like to call him (or Rotting Robin, if you prefer), is still clutching a death grip, literally, on the branch. Ben went out at my request today to knock it out of the tree so I wouldn't have to watch the magic of decomposition every time I looked out the window. Unfortunately the bird is a little out of rake range, so Ben had to shake the tree limb instead. He shook and he shook and he shook, and the bird flopped around as much as rigor mortis would allow, but absolutely would not come off the branch.

Ick. Here's hoping tomorrow's attempt fares better.

X-Mas Happenin's

That star is GARBAGE! (Fah la la la lah, la la la laaaaahhh!)

We put the Christmas tree up last night. Or rather the top half of it. The tree's really about six feet, but since the stand broke we had to get another one and it's a Walmart value at about $7.50, and having any kind of expectation of the shoddy piece o' junk holding up the whole thing is a bit much. As it stands now, with only the top half to support, it's a little unstable at best, and we can only pray the cat doesn't climb back up there and knock it over again. While we were out for a stand we decided to purchase a star for the tree per Henry's request. I guess the "Black Friday" madness (which I happily avoided) must've cleared out the shelves at Wally World, for pickin's was slim. The choices were: broken plastic star that blinked; non-broken plastic star that blinked blue and green; ugly trailer-trash multi-light, gold tinsel adorned star; and hideous twin of before mentioned star in silver tinsel. I'd gladly have posted pictures of said choices, but apparently Walmart is too embarrassed to showcase such cheapo hud on the internets. Anyway, I opted for the non-broken star that blinked, because honestly, although I didn't really give a crap since we've done without a star for nine years, I couldn't bring myself to even touch the tinsel twins. Then today, after Joy School was blissfully over, Henry looks up at the tree and whined, "That star is garbage! I wanted the other star with the lights!"

The Curse Continues...

As I was sitting down to read a book this afternoon my gaze wandered to the colorful fall leaves dappled with sunlight just outside my window. Then something unusual caught my attention. There in the ornamental pear tree situated before the house, far out on a limb, dangling upside down by forces unknown, hung a dead bird. I know this bird was dead because I watched it with interest for some time, waiting for it to right itself, which it never did. As I looked up from my book from time to time I noticed the tree stayed devoid of living birds for a while, which was kind of creepy. Like being in a movie where there's this ominous dead bird hanging upside down from a tree for no discernible reason. Then after a while smaller, living birds flew over and started eating the little pears, happily ignoring the dead carcass, and then flew away, presumably over to the oak tree where they perched from on high and crapped on my car like they've been doing for the past three weeks. Stupid birds. If the dead bird's still there in the morning I'm taking a picture. Weirdest thing I ever saw.

Thanksgiving

Wednesday we drove down to my parents' and luxuriated in idleness for a while. Ben was sick and napped on the couch. Poor guy; it seems like anytime he gets a long weekend off he gets sick. But instead of staying at home and sleeping all day he decided to be a good sport and do that at Mom and Dad's. While he slept and Henry played I made a pumpkin cheesecake, my contribution to the Thanksgiving feast. Then Dad and Beth made a huge vat of fudge (literally there was thirty-something pounds of it) and once it was poured out into cookie sheets to set, all the kids got a spoon and went to town on the ginormous pot. I also got to hang out and chat with Mom and Maggie. And I managed to read Little House in the Big Woods.

I was going to read Little House on the Prairie the next day, but Ben and I ended up going shooting in the woods instead. There next to a fallen tree two pumpkins were summarily dispatched, as well as several cans formerly containing ingredients to various pies made that morning. As we were walking back to the house through the woods we came out by the pond and saw Dad yanking a beaver lodge out with his tractor and this rusty old hinged claw-thingy on a rope. So we decided to lend a hand and manned the big kayak and helped insofar as we were able. Mostly we splashed stinky cold water all over ourselves trying to tow branches away from the island the beaver invaded to the shore where Dad was making a huge pile of sticks he'd already dislodged. Had the beavers not chewed down just about every tree around the pond and wrecked the island I'd probably have felt a little sorry for them. Dad suggested a beaver hunt for that night, and as tempted as I was to camp out at night in a kayak waiting for beavers to sneak out of the broken lodge, I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to shoot one. Killing pumpkins is one thing, beavers are too dang cute. I'd feel way too guilty. I think it'd be fun to stalk them, though. Before our little beaver lodge demolition was over Ben had smacked me in the head with his paddle and my shirt was covered in stinky pond scum and mud (and probably beaver poo). So I had just enough time to wash up change back into my clothes from Wednesday and then help Mom make mashed potatoes. Henry, the little gourmand, refused to eat anything but the rolls Beth made. He did try a little bit of pumpkin pie and surprise, surprise, he didn't like it. Weirdo.

All in all, a good Thanksgiving.